Play Nice
by Karashi
Summary: Just another one of those AU "Bulma is taken from Chikyuu to work for Frieza where she catches the Saiyan no Ouji's attention" fics.
1. Momentary Reprieve

**Play Nice**

**Disclaimers:** Dragon Ball Z and its characters belong to Akira Toriyama.  
**Author's Notes:** B/V AU's are my guilty pleasure. Written for the Spectrum Challenge in Maddie-san's LJ writing community (community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/bulmavegeta). Inspired by Infinite Pen's "Technical Difficulties" and every single DBZ fic lisalu ever finished.

* * *

**Prompt:** Blue  
**Chapter One:** Momentary Reprieve

It had been barely two months since the Saiyan Radditz came to retrieve his brother Son Goku and complete the mission of purging Chikyuu. The large man was defeated at the cost of Son Goku's life, and it only earned the blue planet a reprieve. Thanks to the Nameksei-jin's gloating, Radditz had learned of the Dragon Balls, and with his last breath he informed his two partners.

His two partners who were much more powerful than he was. His two partners who would be arriving in less than a year.

This sent the Z-Senshi into a mad frenzy of training and preparation with Kami's guidance. Bulma did her best to help, collecting the Dragon Balls to wish Goku back to life, only to be informed they would have to hold it off until he finished his training in Hell. She found it weird, but decided not to question the will of their deity.

"I'll leave them in your care, then," Bulma waved to the residents of Kame House as she decapsulated an air-car.

"Wait! Where are you going?" Roshi asked.

She ignored the very obvious reason for the old man's disappointment, choosing instead to answer, "I'm heading to my lab at home. I found something in the Scouter-thing that might be useful."

While fiddling with the device, she had managed to extract what appeared to be the schematics of a hand cannon. Not that she didn't have any trust in her friends or their ridiculous power levels, but no one knew the exact location those two Saiyans would arrive. What if they came to Kame House? Or worse, Capsule Corporation? Bulma didn't think she or any of the ordinary Chikyuu-jins stood a chance but she wasn't about to just roll over and let them kill her.

Bulma Briefs planned to go out kicking and screaming.

Arriving at her home, she briefly greeted her parents before heading straight to her workshop. There, she spent the next two weeks in a tireless routine of building, dismantling, and testing, pausing only to eat, bathe, and sleep (in that order). She was determined to create a working prototype within the month and when the blue-haired inventor set her mind to something, there was no shaking her resolve.

According to the schematics, the weapon was meant to fire a beam that would obliterate anything in its path, which she had managed to achieve after numerous recalculations and adjustments. Her first attempt had punched a boulder-sized hole in the firing range walls. But Bulma only figured out just how destructive the hand cannon was when she heard the concerned cries of her friends. She ran out to meet them and was surprised at the panic in their eyes, not knowing they had sensed the power that surged so close to her home from Kami's palace.

"We felt a Ki blast, you alright, babe?" Yamcha asked, his scarred face pale with worry, studying her for any signs of injury before noticing the strange construct she held in her arms.

Bulma nodded while her face broke out into a proud smile. She proceeded to show her invention to friends, conveniently forgetting to mention the alien origin of the device while she demonstrated how it worked, twisting the dial to its lowest setting so that it only made a fist-sized hole.

"So this is how you prepare for the Saiyans, huh?" Krillin whistled, visibly impressed with her invention.

"Hey, I can't let you guys do _all_ the work."

"You do when it involves keeping house," the monk teased.

Bulma let out an indignant huff at the laughter but it wasn't long until a smile crept across her face. The looming threat of the alien invaders had created a suffocating tension for the heiress. It felt so wonderful to hear her friends laugh. She couldn't hide her disappointment that they wouldn't stay for dinner. Despite her furrowed brows and the pout on her lips she understood their training took precedence.

"I'll fire the cannon three times on its lowest setting to let you guys know I'll be doing tests on its power level," she told them as they prepared to leave.

"Sounds good, babe," Yamcha smiled suddenly pulling her into a ferocious hug. Bulma threw herself into the embrace, her own arms curling as tight around her boyfriend as she could. Reluctantly they let go and she waved to them as they took to the sky, heading back to the deity's palace to continue their training. It would be months until they saw each other again. For now, she had her work to keep her busy.

After two weeks since the first successful test-fire, Bulma made some adjustments to the hand cannon. It was sleeker than the original design, sizable enough to give someone a nasty bruise if she wielded it like a club, but light enough that its weight didn't threaten to pull her arm off. The young woman gave the hand cannon the last few finishing touches before slipping it onto her hand. The only question left was had she successfully increased its power?

She was fiddling with the settings when she heard someone calling her.

"Bulma? Bulma sweetheart?" It was the soft, lilting voice of her mother over the intercom. "Are you still busy with your little project?"

"I'm almost done here, Momma!" She answered in excitement. "I just need to decide on some stuff."

"That's lovely, dear. I just thought you might want to know we have guests," Bunni chirped happily.

Bulma didn't give it a second thought. Her mother loved being the dutiful hostess so it wasn't unusual to have people over. "Momma, do you know where Poppa is? I wanted to ask him about something."

"He's in the gardens, I think. Bulma, do say hello to our guests. One of them is _quite_ handsome, oh if I were only ten years younger," Bunni sighed wistfully.

The blue-haired heiress rolled her eyes, but she never could refuse her mother anything. No matter how mundane the request. "Fine, but I can't stay!"

"Do freshen up a bit, sweetheart. You'll thank me for it later."

With a sigh, Bulma did as her mother asked. Cool water washed away the dirt and soot from her skin and her fingers combed through her aqua locks that now ended just at her chin. She shrugged off her grime-stained work clothes, slipped on a white sundress, and draped a clean lab coat over her arm and the hand cannon. No sense in frightening her mother's guests with dangerous weapons. But if they proved annoying, well, she twisted the dial so that it pointed to low.

Sandal-clad feet padded down the hallway when a smooth, sultry voice politely declined Bunni's enthusiastic offer of brownies drifted in from the kitchen. If that voice matched its owner's appearance maybe Bulma _will_ thank her mother for insisting she greet their guests. Holding the hand cannon behind her back, a dazzling smile on her lips, Bulma stepped into the kitchen. And froze at the sight of their guests.

Their guests who were wearing battle armor and Scouters. The very same design of battle armor and Scouter as Radditz's.

"Bulma! There you are! See, I told you, Mister Zarbon. My little Bulma is a good girl and listens to her Momma," Bunni beamed. "Come sit down, sweetheart. I was just offering Mister Zarbon and his friends-"

"They're my subordinates," the blue-skinned man graciously corrected as he gestured to the two amphibious aliens that flanked him.

"-Something to eat. They're on a very important mission," Bunni declared in a stage whisper, "The poor dears were running low on food! So I told them they were free to take whatever they wanted from our pantries. And that-Bulma? Are you alright, sweetie? You look a little flushed."

The young woman swallowed thickly, willing her legs not to buckle from fear when she met the bright, golden gaze of the man her mother called Zarbon. Despite the benign smile on the handsome alien's lips, Bulma couldn't help but feel a cold dread grow in the pit of her stomach. "I-I'm fine, Momma. I think Poppa wanted to see you. He had something important to tell you. Don't worry, I'll keep our guests entertained."

Bunni, misunderstanding the unblinking stare between her daughter and Zarbon, gave Bulma a conspiratory wink as she excused herself to go to her husband who had obviously not been looking for her.

The blue-haired inventor began the tedium of small talk with as much grace and poise as her mother. Despite the instinctive desire to make a mad dash for the door while screaming at the top of her lungs, being in her own home helped her maintain some level of composure. Judging by the knowing smirk on the blue-skinned man, he knew what was going on in her mind. Bulma waited until her mother was out of earshot before remarking, "You don't look Saiyan."

Zarbon's eyes hardened, as if affronted by her suggestion, but he continued to smile. "That's because I'm not, love."

"Then why are you here on Chikyuu?"

"As I informed your mother, we were running low on food. For once, I am glad for the Monkey's incompetence. If he had successfully purged this planet, we would have likely starved."

"Then, then you're not here to purge Chikyuu?" Bulma held her breath, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"No, that is not my mission. But now that you mention it, we might as well since we're already here," he chuckled, the gem on his forehead glinting when it caught the ray of sunlight as his shoulders rose and fell in a shrug, "But that won't be for another few hours. Let's not spoil this pleasant moment with talk of your planet's destruction. Your mother mentioned you were working on a little project. I can't help but be curious what it is, given your attire."

Bulma felt her face flush in indignant anger, through the fabric of her lab coat she twisted the knob to the hand cannon's highest setting and felt it thrum with power. She had no idea what she was doing other than that there was nothing logical about her actions.

"Actually, Zarbon, I-" she just found she had pulled her arm forward, aimed it at the alien seated between his men, "-Can _show_ you." and with no hesitation, pulled the trigger.

The beam that burst through the hand cannon swelled to the size of a small boulder, gouging a path along the kitchen's tiled floor, splintering the table and obliterating the dinnerware before it engulfed its targets. Wicked recoil slammed against Bulma's entire body, sharply hurtling her backwards without a chance to blink or brace herself for the strong fingers that clenched painfully tight around her shoulders, grounding her in place. Two scorched forms trembled violently on their feet before they pitched forward to the floor, their lifeless bodies still twitching from the aftershock of the blast.

Bile threatened to rise in the back of her throat when the stench of burnt flesh assaulted her senses. But it was beaten down when she broke into a cold sweat, slowly glancing up to see the malice in Zarbon's smiling face. She didn't even know when he dodged the blast. She never took her eyes off him, and the next thing she knew he was behind her.

"What a vulgar little toy you have here," Zarbon chided, snatching the hand cannon from her so quickly it practically materialized in the blue-skinned man's possession. "Did you really build this?" He murmured, studying her with a keen interest that left her unable to speak or move beyond a quick nod.

"This actually managed to kill my lackeys. But that is why they're just that. Lackeys," he chuckled, his lips curling into a sneer while he crushed the weapon with the distracted ease of crumpling paper. "You've put Radditz's Scouter to better use in the span of a few months than that barbarian ever did his entire life. You, love, have far too much potential for me to destroy."

"You're going to have to, because I won't go without a fight!" She snapped. There was nothing false in her claim or bravado. "And that blast will have alerted my friends. They'll come here and stop you from purging Chikyuu!"

"Friends?" Zarbon smirked, a hand absently tapping at his Scouter. He turned his head this way and that before finally managing to locate the Z-Senshi. "Their energy readings hardly measure up to Radditz's, and believe me, love, I am far more powerful."

"That's just what Radditz said," Bulma snarled, feeling braver now that her friends were on their way. "And they managed to kill him."

"Radditz was an overconfident monkey who never managed to lay a finger on me. And while your friends will fare no better, I have better things to do than play with vermin. That is usually what my lackeys are for," Zarbon sighed at the inconvenience. "And since you've disposed of them, I should think it would only be fair that you replace them in their service to me," he purred, caressing Bulma's cheek with the back of his hand.

She went rigid at his touch but managed to stammer, "I-I can't- _won't_ fight my friends!"

"Your Ki level is so laughably low I wouldn't even dream of it. No, you'll be far more useful and far more _entertaining_ as something else."

"As what?" She asked, her face ashen while unconsciously backing away.

"Primarily as a tech slave, which entails engineering or mechanical duties. We have a surplus on brawn but a severe lack in brains," the alien man calmly explained, arms folded behind his cape, the deadly grace in his steps as he stalked towards her betraying the beatific smile on his lips. "You'll be spared from the Pleasure Quarters if you come with me willingly."

"I'd rather die first, you sick son of a bitch!" She hissed.

"Now that you mention it, you most likely will if I _do_ put you in the Pleasure Quarters. It'll be a waste of your mind as much as your body," he seemed to reconsider his decision for a moment, then his gold eyes glittered, "How about this? Come with me willingly and I swear that none of my men will ever lay a finger on your precious Chikyuu."

Blue eyes blinked in disbelief. Did she hear him correctly? Was Zarbon promising her the safety of her planet in exchange for her service as a mechanic? It sounded too good to be true. It probably was. Bulma wasn't sure she could make the sacrifice. She wasn't that magnanimous a person. She was a genius, yes, but she was also spoiled and selfish and was not very good at following orders she did not like or approve of.

"You don't have much time to decide, love. I doubt you'll be in any state of mind to be of use after I've slaughtered your friends right before your eyes," he said conversationally, eyes trained at something in the distance that Bulma couldn't see. "And I would hate to have to upset your lovely Mother after all she's done."

Bulma was about to scream that he better leave her family alone. But hearing the approaching footsteps of her mother and seeing the predatory gleam in Zarbon's eyes, the young woman steeled herself and answered. "Okay."

"Smart decision, love. Say farewell to your parents, pack some mementos if you like, but do have the grace not to tell them of our arrangement," he warned none too kindly.

Bulma nodded wordlessly, feeling like she just sold her soul to the Devil.

* * *

Messages sent from one squad member to another were normally considered inconsequential as nine times out of ten the logs were little more than friendly banter between comrades or heated insults between rivals or battleplans requiring precision and split-second timing or the ever-popular fire at anything that moved. But when a heavily encrypted message was sent from a squad that was never known for its unwavering loyalty to its Tsiru-jin master, well, it was only natural the old lizard would be curious.

One wasted month and three dead encoders later, the only thing they managed to piece together was that it involved Chikyuu. Their records showed an infant Saiyan had been sent to handle the little mudball. It did not come as too much of a surprise to Frieza that the planet had not been successfully purged. Perhaps the monkeys were simply too ashamed to admit that one of their own had failed, Saiyan pride was something of a notoriety in the space-faring parts of the universe.

All the same, Zarbon was sent to this backwater planet to investigate. If it turned out there was nothing of interest, then he was free to do whatever he wanted. Even further wound the Saiyans and their pride by purging the planet for them.

The blue-skinned alien wasn't able to garner anything useful from the first handful of natives he and his men interrogated and subsequently killed. He decided to search for Radditz's Scouter. Or rather, the individual who currently possessed the device. Whoever had it managed to access the archives and downloaded the schematics of a rejected hand cannon. No one on the Tsiru-jin's payroll ever managed to find a way to stabilize the damn thing, and after countless failed attempts and disintigrated techs, it was deemed a waste of time and resources.

Zarbon just wanted to see if the hapless fool had tried to recreate it and whether there would be anything of him left. He was pleasantly surprised to have a Chikyuu-jin female welcome him and his men into her home and treat him as if he was royalty. Perhaps this little mudball had _some_ saving grace.

Enjoying having his ego stroked, Zarbon humored his hostess and instructed his men to stand down. They'll be given the chance to annhialate the residents after he's grown bored of being fussed over. He fought the urge to roll his eyes as the Chikyuu-jin prattled on and on about her offspring. He highly doubted the planet was capable of producing the kind of genius and beauty the flaxen-haired woman claimed her daughter Bulma possessed.

And then he actually _saw_ the aforementioned daughter.

With cream skin and hair the color of clear skies, her appearance certainly merited praise. He saw the flash of recognition in those blue eyes when their gaze met and had to hold back a chuckle at the young woman's attempt at hiding her discomfort. His interest was further piqued when she sent her mother away, leaving her all alone and at their mercy.

That wasn't a very smart thing to do, in Zarbon's opinion. His Scouter showed her power level was only in the double digits and though her voice was even as she conversed with him about the weather and asked how he found her mother's food, he could tell she would much rather be far, far away. She seemed to know who he was and what he was capable of, and still she stayed, even going so far as to protect her family by keeping their focus on her. She was certainly showing more spine than the other inhabitants.

Zarbon found he liked that about her. But it wouldn't have been enough for him to stay his hand when she insulted him with that accusation of being a Saiyan. He spared her life because she actually _knew_ about the Saiyans. She must have come into contact with Radditz but would she know what it was the other two were coming to Chikyuu for? He answered her questions with casual threats, magnified her fear for herself and her planet, tried to goad her into anger and make her careless enough to reveal anything she might know about the Saiyans. It was his suggestive comment about her project that got her truly riled up. And he would have prodded this point of contention further had he not felt a sharp spike of power.

The blue-skinned officer propelled himself out of his seat, somersaulting elegantly in the air at a speed too fast for the Chikyuu-jin's eyes to follow. He silently landed behind the young woman both to steady her from the cannon's recoil and to trap her. The two soldiers Zarbon brought with him weren't as quick on the uptake, falling victim to the enormous Ki blast Bulma had fired fully intending to kill him.

He stared down at the frail beauty in a new light. She was the one who downloaded the schematic. And successfully made something based on it that didn't kill her but her target. Well, not her _actual_ target. Zarbon would never fall victim to such a paltry toy. But in the hands of a trained soldier, the results would be very profitable and very lethal. As Zarbon crushed the hand cannon, he decided even if she had no inkling of the Saiyans and their motives, she would still be a valuable asset if he took her alive.

The steel in her eyes made it very clear that taking her by force would only result in her death. But Frieza sent Zarbon alone because the blue-skinned officer knew other forms of coercion. He swore to her that his men would not purge her planet if she went with him. And as he expected, she agreed. Golden eyes tapered into jovial slits as the blue-haired Chikyuu-jin disappeared through the doorway to bid farewell to her family and make the necessary preparation for their journey.

Zarbon drummed his fingers impatiently on the remnants of the kitchen counter. He had disposed of the corpses with a controlled blast of Ki, incinerating them into ash more out of boredom than wanting to spare anyone's feelings. His Scouter gave a small beep, indicating that the ship's autopilot was ready for take-off, and he wondered if the blue-haired girl's friends would arrive on time to see him whisk her away. A cruel smirk played on his lips at the thought of causing them pain without having to exert himself.

Bulma returned shortly, clothed in grim black, a small satchel slung around her hips with her parents trailing after her. The elderly man smoking a cigarette looked somber as he held his daughter's hand until Zarbon glared pointedly at him to let go. The addle-brained mother was shoving a basket of food at the blue-skinned officer, insisting that they needed more food since her daughter would be traveling with them on an adventure. Zarbon accepted the container but had no intention of eating any of the morsels packed inside.

"Did you say all you needed to say, love?" Zarbon asked as he led Bulma into the ship. He saw the trembling of her lower lip and a corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk. Tears already? He'll break her spirit easily enough. And when that time comes, she'll be unable to deny him anything, answers, inventions, even her body if the mood struck him.

Mutely, she nodded, rapidly blinking away the tears she struggled to control. They strapped themselves into their seats while the autopilot handled the rest. Their ascent into space was a smooth one. The ship easily broke free of Chikyuu's atmosphere and was hurtling for the coordinates Zarbon had typed in beforehand. Bulma sat motionless by the window, watching the blue planet she could no longer call home grow smaller and smaller by the second until she couldn't even tell which pin-prick of light it was in the vast cosmos.

Zarbon draped an arm across her shoulder, drawing her to his muscular chest, unable to feel the damp of her cheeks through his armor. "There, there, love. I gave you my word that as long as you do a good job with the techs, and play nice with me, my men will never harm Chikyuu, didn't I?"

Again a silent nod.

"Then stop your crying, my sweet," he ordered softly, "Why don't tell me about your friends."

She stared at him in suspicion. "You're asking me to tell you what they can and can't do in fights, aren't you?"

Zarbon shook his head, his long, green braid swaying behind him. "No, you don't seem capable of following high speed movements. We have about a week to until we reach your new home. I simply thought we could pass the time with civilized conversation. My lackeys were hardly what you would call intellectually stimulating."

He eyed her carefully from behind the charming smile that lit his face. Perhaps she might not be as easily fooled as he first thought. But he had time. About as much as Chikyuu did. And Zarbon fully intended to keep his promise to Bulma.

His men would not touch the blue planet.

Zarbon just conveniently forgot to mention to the blue-haired woman (who was asking him whether they had a library on the ship) that the Saiyans weren't his men.


	2. Choices

**Warning:** Some violence ahead.  
**Author's Notes:** Another Bulma-centric part, but I promise she and Vegeta will meet in the next update. This is an unusually long chapter, the remaining ones won't be so long.

* * *

**Prompt:** Red  
**Chapter Two:** Choices

Bulma had always thought herself a worldly woman, having spent her younger years exploring the far-flung corners of Chikyuu on one life-threatening adventure after another. She had plunged into that life, head-first and head-long, with the reckless abandon of dream-filled youth, an unwavering sense of hope, and the comforting knowledge of having somewhere safe to come back home to in the event things got too rough for her or her friends to handle. But as the ship smoothly made planet-fall that evening, a wave of trepidation rose in the pit of her stomach. She realized that this time, there would be no security, no guarantee of her safety on the strange new world that was to be her prison.

The hatch opened up to a dimly lit courtyard where several squads of armored soldiers stood at attention. Zarbon's firm but gentle hand was on her shoulder and she was ushered out of the craft to walk past the men who, from the corner of their eyes, studied her with either pity or a lecherous patience. Bulma had gotten used to the blue officer's touch, no longer tensing or shrinking back whenever his fingers brushed against her skin or idly threaded through her hair. It didn't make her comfortable, but it was grounding in a way, something she could use to anchor herself to reality.

Even if each time he made contact a cold dread shot up her spine, it was preferable to giving into the urge of crying her eyes out whenever she remembered she would never see her friends or family again. Something she had desperately tried to avoid doing in front of the man. She couldn't afford to show him any weakness. Not after figuring out his intentions when he wheedled her about Chikyuu.

_He gave back-handed compliments about her planet's level of technology, laughed at the absurd notion of their government as opposed to a totalitarian form of ruling, and dismissed the level of biodiversity that existed as nothing more than evolution not having made its mind up of which specie wasn't worth culling from existence._

_There was a certain level of elitist sincerity in the way he spoke, as if he wasn't intentionally trying to get a rise out of her with all his insults. _

_"If it's so worthless why do you need to purge Chikyuu?" She had snapped testily, her patience frayed._

_"It has potential, love, which can be worth a small fortune on the planetary market," he smiled kindly at her, then those beautiful, golden eyes glittered with a cold-blooded calculating gleam so briefly Bulma would have missed it had she not been so entranced by them. She wondered how she had never noticed his smile never reached his eyes, at least not until the moment he asked "Why? Is there something on Chikyuu that makes it so unique?"_

_Oh Kami, he knows about the Dragon Balls! But, no, that couldn't be. If he did, he would have tried to take them when he arrived, or threatened her into showing him where they were. And he wouldn't have _left without them_. Just like the Saiyans, Zarbon hadn't heard about the mystical artifacts. But unlike the Saiyans, they hadn't been privy to the loose-lipped Nameksei-jin's boasting._

_So she looked offended, something she already felt to begin with, and with a petulant pout declared "You just took her with you!"_

_He had stared at her, stunned by her ego and spirit, before one corner of his lips pulled into a smirk of admiration. "You will have your chance to prove it, love. This planet-base we are headed for has the highest concentration of tech slaves and Mastertechs. You should be quite at home with your fellow engineers for company."_

_Home, huh?_ Bulma thought wryly as Zarbon led her from the courtyard into a building. She followed him into an elevator shaft, down a long carpeted corridor and into an elegantly furnished suite, complete with ceiling-high windows opening to a garden that undoubtedly looked breath taking in the morning.

"It's beautiful," she found herself whispering, almost forgetting about the man standing behind her.

"As is everything I own," he purred into her ear, his hands sliding from her shoulders down to her waist.

His breath was hot in her ear, but his touch chilled her and she shuddered, wishing fervently that she was not expected to share his bed. It shouldn't be as terrible as she thought. He was, obviously, a man she found very, _very_ attractive. He spoke with a cultured grace that would have made her swoon had her pride not been so reviled by the fact that he was now her master and she his slave. Strange that whenever she touched him, she didn't feel cold or dread though his skin was cool beneath the pads of her fingertips. It was only when he touched her that her stomach turned, goose bumps prickled her arm, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

Zarbon seemed unaware of his effect on her, thinking her unease stemmed from being inexperienced (which she was on all accounts) and smiling a gentle, humoring smile told her "I did bring you here as a tech slave, didn't I, love?"

She nodded, unable to speak lest he heard the panic that had steadily begun to twist in her chest.

"As I am flesh and blood, I don't believe servicing me falls under the scope of your duties. However, Masters may do with Slaves as they wish. But I give you the choice, love," he chuckled, bringing a hand up to caress her face. She stared up at him in disbelief, and Zarbon saw things warring behind those sky-colored eyes. He studied her appraisingly, and when the intensity of his gaze proved too much for her, she looked down at her feet. It had been a smart move on her part, to have turned away when she did. For he continued, "I would _prefer_ if you came to my bed willingly. I fear if I forced you, I would break you. And it's only fun to break things if they can put up a fight."

And just like that, whatever semblance to desire she might have felt for the man vanished and her lowered gaze hardened with grim determination. He will never have anything of hers. Not information about the Dragon Balls, not samples of the Capsulization technology, and not her. Not while she breathed.

"I, I am grateful, Zarbon," she whispered with a slight tremble of her shoulders, "But I, I cannot make such a decision at this time. I, you, that is," she stammered, and babbled of her relationship with Yamcha. It was a good enough excuse on her part, her genuine anxiety coupled with the conversations she had shared with the officer about Chikyuu-jin "mating" traditions granted her a stay of execution of sorts.

"You have until I return in three months time to give me your answer," there was a benign smile on his lips, but it gave Bulma no comfort. "As well as an improved model of that hand cannon you slaughtered my men with."

She nodded. Then blinked. "Return?"

"Yes, love, I leave in the morning to report to my Lord Frieza of my findings on Chikyuu. And since it seems I will be well rested for it, perhaps I may even leave before sunrise."

Bulma remembered the wolfish stares some of the soldiers had given her, and unsteadily asked "You mean you're not staying?"

Long, braided emerald locks shook, "Fear not, love, I've given all the necessary instructions before we arrived. You will come to no harm. Not while I have you under my wing."

And like his smile, it gave her no comfort.

She would later learn why, when her supervisor came to collect her the next morning. She awoke on the plush duvet she had claimed, since she would not share Zarbon's bed, to a sharp rapping on the door. She fumbled, briefly, and managed to figure out which button controlled the door. When it slid open, she came face-to-face with a tall, avian-like creature with russet plumage cresting its head.

"You the new tech slave?" beady black eyes narrowed at the Chikyuu-jin woman still dressed in her native garb of black cotton and synthetic leather. A nod and the alien unceremoniously shoved a uniform into her arms, followed by a sharp command that she get dressed for briefing. "Bring your things," another clipped command and the Mastertech began to hurriedly walk. "Hurry up, don't lollygag!"

Bulma did as she was told without protest, if only because the alien hadn't leered at her, and while his tone was gruff, he did not seem overly hostile.

"I am Mastertech Chooco of Rawin," he introduced when they arrived in a large facility where other similarly dressed aliens were scuttling about, tools, blueprints, and prototypes in hand. "Zarbon appointed me as your supervisor, Bulma of Chikyuu, because I am the only Mastertech who doesn't need to wear a Ki-damper and am least likely to strike you for no apparent reason." He ignored the pair of blue eyes staring at him dumbly and continued. "I am fair when it comes to meting out praise or punishment. If you deserve it, you will get it. That is the way I run things."

The Chikyuu-jin swallowed, "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Mastertechs have lost more promising engineers to Soldiers than they have to laboratory or field mishaps. You will do well to remember that when Zarbon loses his interest in you and finds himself a new toy to play with."

"N-new toy! Is that what you think I am!" Bulma shrieked so loud and shrill that the rest of the tech slaves cringed.

With no concern for her feelings, the Rawin-jin nodded. "You are not the first Zarbon brought to me for safe-keeping. Most of them eventually end up in the Pleasure Quarters because that's all they were really good for. You have to prove to me, Bulma of Chikyuu, that you are worth keeping on my team and under _my_ protection after you've lost his interest."

He was by no means friendly to the woman with his neutral stance. But he spoke candidly, as someone who was just stating the facts and not out of any malice or delight in causing another person pain. His beady eyes stared down at her, telling her that the ball was in her court now. Whatever became of her after the inevitability of Zarbon's fickle nature was in her own hands.

"H-how many have there been before me?" she asked, voice barely a whisper.

"That is not any of your concern. For the next three months, you are to produce an upgraded model of the hand cannon you built while on Chikyuu. Miint will assist you for today. She will run you through the safety protocols and when the day is done, she will show you to your room." The Mastertech allowed himself a knowing smirk, "You didn't think you'd get to sleep in Zarbon's quarters while he wasn't present, did you?"

Bulma shook her head vehemently, even as an embarrassed blush crept across her face. A young, female Rawin-jin with viridian feathers appeared at her side. Bulma gave the other tech slave a small smile, and she was met with a look of pure disdain. By the time she reached her worktable, she was trembling from anger and outrage at all the thinly veiled sneers and poorly hidden eye rolling everyone had given her as she trailed after Miint.

Obviously, no one here thought she belonged with them.

Attentively, she listened as the young Rawin-jin told her what each station in the laboratory was for, where they kept the tools, and what they were used for. Bulma bit back a snarl at the insults her guide snidely made in between explanations, but it was clear in the fire burning in the Chikyuu-jin's eyes that it would take more than a couple of biting words and open contempt to break her. The blue-haired woman knew that she would have to _prove_ to them that her intelligence had been her bargaining chip to save her homeworld. With her goal in clear sight, she tackled her task with the same ferocity and dedication as her friends on Chikyuu did their training.

Despite having to start from scratch and to build from memory, Bulma managed to piece together the circuitry for a prototype within the day. Granted, the level of technology and the manner of raw materials helped speed things up immensely, but Bulma couldn't deny feeling satisfied with how much she accomplished on her first day. When Mastertech Chooco came to inspect her progress, the Rawin-jin slowly stroked his beak and muttered in slight admiration. "So _that's_ how you managed to stabilize the damn thing."

Miint was decidedly less hostile after watching her charge at work, but she stayed aloof and kept her distance even while she gave Bulma the tour of the facility.

"This is your room. Enjoy your privacy as long as you can, because when you get replaced as Zarbon's favorite, you move in with us in the barracks."

"Were you one of them?" Bulma suddenly asked, trying to see if she could somehow find a friend in the female, or at least someone who was less cold.

The Rawin-jin glared at her, crimson eyes filled with pain and regret. Before Bulma could apologize, Miint whispered, "Zarbon promised me, my sister Berri and even Uncle Chooco sanctuary when they came to purge our world. Uncle Chooco always said I had the smarts and my sister got the looks. Her feathers shone iridescent blue under certain lights, then wild magenta under others."

"She sounds beautiful."

Miint's eyes were shining with unshed tears while she continued to speak unwaveringly. "Zarbon never forced her into anything, we were still very fine-boned when we got here, but she gave herself to him willingly. He spoiled her rotten, and she started acting like she was too good to be around lowly tech slaves. She never carried her weight, and I was forced to finish her tasks on top of mine. I didn't mind. My sister would give me her hand-me-down gowns and the other presents Zarbon showered her with that she didn't particularly like. And then, one day, he told her he was bored with her. Uncle Chooco never acknowledged the work I'd done for her and Berri was sent to the Pleasure Quarters that same day."

"How, how is she doing?" Bulma swallowed thickly, unnerved by the casual tone of the Rawin-jin.

"She died the next day. Bulma of Chikyuu, you are naive and fragile like a Rawin-jin newborn. You will not survive life in the Pleasure Quarters." A statement, not a threat. And Miint left for the barracks.

Bulma wordlessly entered her room. She didn't seem to see the elegant dressing table, the plush couch decorated with embroidered pillows, or the closet half-filled with beautiful gowns and clothing. She drifted toward the large bed, letting the reality of her situation sink in the way she couldn't on Zarbon's ship as she herself sunk below the silken bedcovers. Were it not for the soft, gentle presence in her mind, she doubted she would have gotten any sleep that night or the nights thereafter.

* * *

The prototype was finished a month ahead of schedule, much to her fellow tech slaves' surprise. There were those who still had their doubts about her abilities, having seen the original schematics and notes regarding the hand cannon. Until they, along with the blue-haired Chikyuu-jin, were brought to the Combat facility's firing range.

The Soldiers practicing their shooting had clustered to one side, curious and amused. They always found these tests entertaining. Especially when something went wrong. There was a chorus of whistles, peppered with snickers, when the delicate woman holding a hand cannon that looked too small to be nothing more than a joke broke away from the group. The sharpshooting instructor Cui showed her the proper stance, managing to cop a feel in the process and earning himself an outraged glare.

Slim fingers twisted a knob, and figures began to register on Scouters. The numbers skyrocketed when the woman pulled the trigger and power shot out of the muzzle in a steady beam. The woman was speaking now, explaining things using jargon that only her fellow tech slaves understood, but when she twisted the knob again, the numbers on the Scouters drop. She twisted a third time, and the Scouters explode from the sharp jump in energy. Buttons were pushed, and what came out of the muzzle was a scatterburst.

"That thing's got some serious juice," Cui grinned, a hand outstretched expectantly at Bulma.

"It does, doesn't it?" She smirked and made no motion to hand it over.

"I'd like to see it up close." It was not a request.

"Alright everyone, head back to the lab. Compare notes and we'll see if we can't make this thing better than it is," Mastertech Chooco interrupted, spotting the antagonistic glint in the Soldier's eyes. The Rawin-jin ushered his team out of the Combat facility, keeping a wary eye on the Soldiers trailing after them all the way to the complex's entrance.

Several hours of brainstorming later, Chooco dismissed everyone for the day, stating rest was the next order of business. On their way to their rooms, Bulma lightly nudged the Mastertech's niece with her elbow, "Well? What do you think?"

Miint sniffed imperiously, "Too flashy."

"Maybe the scatterburst was a little too much," she chuckled. "But I wouldn't have been able to incorporate that feature if it wasn't for your help."

A light flush dusted the female avian's face at the praise. "As long as you acknowledge it."

Before they rounded the corner, Bulma felt taloned hands grab at her arms and pull her to the wall. "What is-?"

"Shh!" Miint hissed, pressing herself as flat as she could and glaring at the Chikyuu woman to do the same.

Laughter, cold, hard and cruel soon filled the hallway, then a terrified squeak, pleading and begging for mercy. The sickening crunch of bones, a dull thud of a body being dropped, with only the wet gurgles of pain to give comfort that it was still alive. When heavy footfalls faded to silence Miint peered around the corner and found a small, rodent-like medic curled up into a trembling, defensive ball.

Together with Bulma, the two tech slaves brought the wounded healer to the infirmary. The physicians shook their heads sadly as they tended to their own, thanking them as if it was the norm. Wordlessly, the two females continued back to their rooms. Miint had seen this sort of thing before and it was obvious it no longer surprised her. But Bulma was visibly shaken, the color from her already pale skin had drained to a sickly pallor.

"They're monsters," Bulma whispered finally.

"They are," Miint agreed. "Any form of resistance is only met with more violence. It's just easier to play dead than to fight back."

_Mastertechs have lost more promising engineers to Soldiers than they have to laboratory or field mishaps._ Chooco's words suddenly echoed in her mind.

"That's not right."

"That's how things work on this base and on all the other bases."

"Hasn't anyone told Zarbon?"

Miint's beak hung open, feathered brows knitted in sheer disbelief. "He encourages this sort of behavior. He and his Lord believes the strong have the right to do whatever they want while the weak are-"

"Forced to suck it up and take it?" An angry growl was in Bulma's throat. "Is that why you never go anywhere in this base on your own?" From the corner of her eye, she saw Miint nod and that tiny gesture made her ill. Her friend was right. She was naive. Nothing has happened to her because she's under Zarbon's protection but what would happen to her once he grew tired of her? Despite her vanity and ego's outcry that anyone would ever tire of her, Bulma shuddered at the very real possibility.

She'd have to find some way to defend herself because she'd never been very good at playing dead.

* * *

_A hulking, monstrous creature trudged away from a smoldering wasteland that had been West City. Its movement was slow, sluggish, the fatigue from seven straight days of non-stop slaughter finally given leave to seep into its limbs. It made its way to where two deep craters, each housing a circular pod, sunk low in the ground. With every long stride the dark-furred beast took, it seemed to shrink, its length and mass seemingly collapsing in on itself until finally it was no bigger than a man._

_A man with a tail wrapped firmly around his waist, armor-clad chest rising and falling with deep breaths, formerly pristine-white gloves stained with blood, much of which was not his. His lips were curled in a cruel, triumphant grin, no less feral or savage than the one he had worn as a Saiyan Oozaru while he beat down on his opponents. In one week, he laid waste to civilizations that took centuries to build. The air was heavy with the silent dirge of death for the millions upon millions of ended lives, but in his ears rang clear echoes of the war song his enemies screamed before he slew them to the last man._

_It begun as a one-sided battle - if he could even call what to him was little more than a leisurely stroll through a training simulator on its easiest setting a battle. He hadn't even needed to get involved, perfectly content with watching from the sidelines and letting his subordinate deal with the little gnats that were this pathetic planet's strongest warriors. They were sufficiently amusing, with the futility of their struggles against a clearly superior power and their blind faith in Radditz's traitorous younger brother, supposedly back from the dead. _

_He wanted to see for himself the living proof of the Dragon Balls and their mystical abilities. Deciding to indulge them with an extra three hours of life to await their savior, never expecting his mercy would be so greatly rewarded with information._

"Cool it, Yamcha!" the bald, diminutive Chikyuu-jin hissed, trying his best to keep the scarred warrior from pushing off from the ground where he lay prone. "I know you're pissed but we need to hold on until Goku gets here."

"Let me go, Krillin, I'm not done with these bastards!" the man called Yamcha hauled himself up, struggling into a stance despite the arms that held him at bay.

"I'd be happy to oblige you your death wish right now, weakling," the towering, mustached Saiyan chuckled, cracking his knuckles while taking ominous steps towards the cluster of soon-to-be dead men.

"Nappa."

The command the smaller Saiyan had absently uttered stilled the big brute. Nappa turned to argue, but any words of protests died on his lips at the warning that flashed in the dark, hard eyes of his liege.

"S-sorry, Vegeta-Ouji, I got carried away. My body's just been aching for some action."

"And you would have proven me a liar and dishonored me in the process," he said coldly.

"What the fuck would _you_ know about honor?" the scarred Chikyuu-jin snarled.

"Yamcha," his small friend pleaded, though his own face was grim as he shot an equally furious glare at the two alien conquerors.

"He is the Saiyan no Ouji, you pitiful little insect!" Nappa hollered. "His honor is worth more than all your miserable lives combined!"

"Where is the honor in kidnapping?" The hairless, three-eyed man standing beside a floating, deathly-white creature quietly demanded.

"Taking someone hostage is at times necessary to lure our intended target into the open," Vegeta shrugged casually, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then absently added "Or to ensure they don't run away."

"Such as when your friend came and took Son Goku's boy?" The Nameksei-jin growled, unconsciously stepping closer to the half-breed child struggling to stop the shaking of his tiny body.

A nod. "Precisely. When we've achieved our goal, and the hostage has outlived its usefulness, we put it out of its misery like we would have our target."

"That's not what we're talking about and you know it, you sick fucks!" Yamcha roared, his Ki spiking in fury, tearing himself free of Krillin's grip, and charging straight for the tailed pair.

Sneering, Nappa spread his arms apart. "I'm not allowed to kill you for another three hours, insect." In the same breath he sharply brought his meaty hands together, the impact creating a shockwave of sound and air pressure that knocked the enraged Chikyuu-jin backwards and forced him to land at his fellow warriors' feet.

"What _were_ you talking about, then?" Vegeta asked, a patronizing smirk on his face, having decided to humor them until their time was up and his companion ended them.

"Playing dumb?" Krillin grimaced, "Or do you really have nothing to do with the blue guy who took Bulma?"

"Blue guy?" Nappa's forehead was furrowed in confusion as he turned to the smaller Saiyan for answers.

"The blue-skinned freak has to be one of them!" Yamcha screamed, already crouched and ready to spring forward into another attack, only to be blocked by his three-eyed comrade. "Briefs showed us the video footage and he had the same gear as these two do!"

"I assure you my squad is composed only of Saiyans. Any other specie would be hard pressed to keep up with us," Vegeta's smirk widened, taking great delight in the rage his arrogant words incited from the warriors present. Then he looked serious. "But does this "blue-skinned freak" happen to have long, braided green hair?"

"And looks really girly?" Nappa added, unease slowly replacing the confusion.

The hard glares from the Chikyuu-jins confirmed their suspicions: _Zarbon._

"So he _is_ one of you!" Yamcha seethed, unsuccessfully trying to maneuver past the larger, bald Chikyuu-jin.

"You should be more worried about yourselves than your lost warrior," Nappa laughed mockingly.

"Bulma wasn't a warrior! She was an innocent civilian! He had absolutely no reason to take her!" the scarred man's voice was raw with unshed tears and pent up frustration of helplessness. The Saiyans would have thought the emotional display hilarious if it weren't so pathetic.

"It's not _our_ practice, but some squads like to bring back souvenirs from their missions," Nappa grinned wickedly.

"W-what'll they do to Bulma-neesan?" the little whelp cowering behind the green-skinned fighter squeaked.

"Is your missing civilian beautiful?" the towering Saiyan leered.

No one missed the way Yamcha trembled as he choked back a horrified sob.

"She'll either be the fancy boy's personal fuck toy, or be sent to the Pleasure Quarters. Either way, she's probably dead by now. Your kind is just too breakable. And if she isn't, she's probably wishing she was!" The big man threw his head back in laughter, relishing the disgust and outrage on their opponents' faces. After all, to the Saiyans, it just meant one less Chikyuu-jin to purge from this planet.

Though he kept his features a neutral blank, a small knot of worry had begun to form in the back of the smaller Saiyan's mind. Zarbon had come to this miserable planet, under Frieza's orders no doubt. Vegeta mentally cursed the fool Radditz for using such a complicated encryption when he relayed the information about the Dragon Balls to them. He understood the need for secrecy, and why they had to make certain their employer never caught wind of the mystical artifacts. But it shouldn't have been at the risk of drawing the very attention they had been trying to avoid in the first place!

Frieza never trusted the Saiyans to begin with, and had always kept a close watch on their movements. But if this Son Goku had indeed been brought back to life just to do battle with them, then it meant the old lizard didn't know anything about the magical, immortality-granting spheres. The squad-leader bit back a snarl, deciding it couldn't be helped. At least they managed to buy themselves some time.

Speaking of time, a soft beep from a Scouter indicated the designated three hours were up and with no savior in sight.

"How disappointing," Vegeta clucked his tongue, pulling his Scouter off his face. "But of course the traitor would also be a coward. You can have your fun now, Nappa."

The giant wasted no time in charging at the six warriors, shoving aside the three-eyed fighter before plunging one large arm elbow-deep into the chest of the scarred Chikyuu-jin in the blink of an eye. Laughing at the ease with which he whittled their numbers down until only the half-breed, and the diminutive warrior were left. At some point in the skirmish, the Nameksei-jin had sacrificed himself to protect the boy, and with him gone so were the Dragon Balls.

Fearing for his life, Nappa apologized profusely for his error, which Vegeta dismissed with a wave and an amused reminder that "We know the coordinates to Nameksei."

Then the traitor arrived and promptly beat Nappa within an inch of his life.

Vegeta never thought the tides of the battle could turn so easily with just one man. What the combined efforts of six fighters could not accomplish, Radditz's brother had managed with frightening ease. Something about the younger Saiyan, something in his eyes, or the power he housed made the Prince itch to put him in his place. Perhaps it was the fact that the traitor had refused to give Nappa the warrior's death he deserved for being defeated and forced Vegeta to slay the big man himself.

Regardless of the reason, he engaged the Chikyuu-raised Saiyan in combat, trading blows with break-neck speed and leveling the land with each dodged blast.

The Saiyan Prince couldn't remember the last time he felt his blood sing for battle, for the blinding need to tear at flesh, to break bone and spirit in the glorious frenzy of brutality so instinctive to his race. He had hoped it would be mirrored in his opponent. He was not disappointed. He had actually come very close to losing.

A feral grin broke across Vegeta's face. It had been long, so very, very long since he needed to call upon his strength as an Oozaru. Energy thrummed through his body as he transformed, pushing past the pain that exploded in his limbs from the violent onslaught of power with a roar. The battle sharply tilted into his favor.

He welcomed the vicious joy surging through his veins when he caught the younger Saiyan in his massive paw. Sturdy bones gave way to pressure, the audible snap and the shrieks of pain a sweet duet to his ears. The wind shifted just then, and he caught scent of someone trying to sneak up behind him. His tail rose and absently swatted down on the insignificant pest, a chuckle escaping his maw at the satisfying squelch of innards bursting through skin. Two gnats buzzed about, their attacks doing little to hurt him, but they were still singularly annoying. He squashed them beneath his foot.

A scream of pain and anger and outrage reminded him of the half-dead Saiyan he held. And like Vegeta did to Nappa upon the larger man's defeat, he put the fallen warrior out of his misery. He tossed the broken corpse away, not deigning to give it the funeral pyre he had bestowed upon his companion.

His bloodlust had not been sated, he thought with disappointment then quickly realized the fewer living things there are that knew of the Dragon Balls, the better. The fact that he _was_ supposed to purge this pathetic planet was just a convenient excuse. There was a deep rumble in his chest, a cross between a purr and a laugh, and he marched his way towards the nearest settlement he could sense.

It was seven days after he made planet-fall when he exterminated the last of the Chikyuu-jins.

_The grin on Vegeta's face widened into a vicious, fang-bared smile at the memory. He slowly climbed into his fighter pod, easing himself down into the seat as the last vestiges of strength his transformation lent him finally ebbed. While he had no Dragon Balls, he had a few things to console himself with. That little technique the Chikyuu-jin fighters used to detect Ki for one. The pathetic Ki levels of the planet's inhabitants made for the perfect targets to develop his senses. He'd managed to perfect it in a matter of days, able to distinguish the individuals amongst clusters of hundreds at a rate that put the Scouters to shame. _

_And for two, if the scarred weakling hadn't run at the mouth the way he had, Vegeta would have immediately punched in the coordinates to Nameksei and alerted Frieza of his plan. So instead, he programmed his pod to take him to the closest Planet-base. He'll think of his next move once he regained his power. In the meantime, he will sleep to recover from the injuries he sustained and as the darkness claimed him, he pushed away the thought that he was now the last Saiyan left._

_

* * *

A monitor displayed the slow heartbeat of one at rest, producing a tinny beep for each faint pulse of life that flowed through the regeneration tank's occupant. Another screen, smaller and mounted at the base of the machine showed numbers counting down until time of completion, the digits changing at an agonizing snail's pace. Wary, reptilian eyes darted from the monitor to the door, from the door to the timer, from the timer back to the door, and from the door to the pale, female Chikyuu-jin floating within the healing liquid of the tank._

_"Please don't die, Bulma," the medic begged, pressing a clawed hand against the glass. "Zarbon will have my head if you do."_

_At the mention of the blue officer, the steady beeps suddenly burst into a staccato, heavy lids shot open in a surge of panic, and the tech slave began to thrash in a blind, desperate bid to escape the phantom horrors that plagued her visions. A sedative infusion quickly filled the chamber, forcing a fog of calm to settle on her mind and weigh her limbs like lead._

_Dilated blue eyes drooped close, pulling her down into the world beyond the waking realm. Only it was not dreams that greeted her but memories, disjointed and painful and vivid and recent. Memories that she wished she had only read about or seen as an uninvolved third party observer rather than experienced first hand._

It was six months ago.

Zarbon had summoned her to his bedroom, and she arrived dressed in dark blue satin that seemed to have been molded to fit her form perfectly. It revealed the swell of her breasts and the long, fluid line of her thighs, just enough to entice without becoming vulgar in the blue officer's opinion. He offered her wine, and a meal, and all throughout the evening they spoke.

Small talk, idle chatter, white noise in the haze of memory until he brought up his proposition when he had brought her to the planet-base.

"I cannot share your bed, Zarbon," she murmured, eyes downcast, hands folded neatly on her lap. She didn't elaborate on the why, not too much. It would have gotten her killed or at least a vicious beating. She expected to be thrown out into the cold, metaphorically of course, and prepared to stand when she feels him gently push her back down.

"I think I would have been disappointed if you did, love," he chuckled.

Bulma's head snapped up before she even realized it. "And what's _that_ supposed to mean!"

"It means, my sweet, that I preferred what we already have. You can appreciate beauty the way I do, and it is rare to find a kindred spirit who I do not find repulsive to look at. I simply wish for someone I can converse with. Tell me all about your inventions and dangerous little gadgets in a report. I want your company as Bulma of Chikyuu, not as one of Lord Frieza's faceless tech slave."

Her breath caught in her throat. The bastard, he'd been testing her!

Zarbon snapped his fingers, and music began to play. He bowed to her, and offered his hand. She took it and immediately found herself pressed up against his chest, an arm wound around her waist, the other holding her hand. He led, she followed, realizing only after they had finished that they were doing the Waltz.

He gave her a smile, and it reached his eyes. She can't remember ever seeing anything so beautiful before.

It was three months ago.

She had finished her side-project, a secret she kept from everyone, even Miint who was fast becoming a very close friend, even Mastertech Chooco who was her mentor and almost like a substitute father. It was a Ki-nullifying pistol. She realized she couldn't create anything destructive like the hand cannon. The Scouters would have reacted to any sudden spike in power but they never recorded dropping power levels unless they caught its rise in the first place.

The Soldiers liked to stare at her when they think she's not looking and when they knew she was. Cui, in particular, enjoyed leering at her and offered her more lessons at the firing range, for whenever Zarbon got bored with her. Bulma knew very well the blasted purple man would never have said such a thing if Zarbon were on the base instead of somewhere in the depths of space. She wished he would try to grope her again, he'd be in for a nasty surprise. She pulled the bill of her cap lower to hide the smirk on her face at the thought.

She would get her wish sooner than she thought when Mastertech Chooco transferred her to the Combat building's Training Simulator project. The best tech slaves under every Mastertech would be working on it. She and Miint were the Rawin-jin's representatives and they were excited to be working together.

At some point while they worked, Miint had to go retrieve a specific tool from the main lab. Bulma assured her she would be fine and when Cui snuck into the room and ran his unwanted hands over the curve of Bulma's rear, the Chikyuu-jin decapsulated the pistol and pulled the trigger. Cui never saw the gun, only heard a soft pop before he fell to the ground convulsing.

"You must have developed a severe allergic reaction," the small, rodent-like medic diagnosed while Miint and Bulma stood nearby, trying to appear concerned and hide the self-satisfied grins behind their caps.

It was two months ago.

Bulma still had her private room, but she liked to have Miint over sometimes. She didn't feel so alone this way and the gentle presence in her head seemed to be pleased by this.

Zarbon called her to his room again. This time they danced something from his homeworld. She spent most of it holding onto him for dear life because their dancing involved flying.

The gentle presence didn't seem to like that very much.

She had no idea how or why a presence could be happy or upset about something.

It was a week ago.

The day began like all the others: A flurry of activity, trying to meet deadlines and work out the bugs in the Training Simulator's system. The Soldiers made for wonderful lab mice, Bulma found, as they blasted and were blasted back by the training droids and wall-mounted weapons. The gentle presence she normally only felt at night before she fell asleep was suddenly there but she managed to ignore it while she worked.

"Miint could you hand me the-" Bulma was suddenly on her knees, wheezing from a sharp agonizing pain in her chest. It felt like someone had grabbed her heart and crushed it.

_Child, I haven't much time._

Tear-filled blue eyes blinked, recognizing of the voice. A soft inaudible whisper escaped her lips. "Kami?"

A soft chuckle, _Yes, child. You must stay strong. You must survive, or else all hope is lost for Chikyuu and its people._

"Wait, what do you mean? Kami?" Bulma whimpered beneath her breath, feeling the presence in her mind grow faint. As the last wisps of the mental connection faded, the deity imparted to her the knowledge of Nameksei and of the planet's Dragon Balls.

And then he was gone.

It was yesterday.

Miint was sobbing somewhere to her right, something about how she hasn't moved in days and that she needed the shot. She felt a pinch on her skin as a syringe injected her with a stimulant. Her vision cleared instantly and she was on her feet, pushing past medics and tech slaves alike in a rush to the Communication room.

She typed in Chikyuu's coordinates. The result came back minutes later. The planet was still there. Sentient life-form readings indicate negative. Planet successfully purged and ready for processing and auctioning.

She didn't understand it. She knew the words. Separately. But in the same sentence it didn't make any sense. She was doubled over, clutching her chest because it became very hard to breath all of a sudden and the weight of her grief threatened to crush her at any given moment.

Bulma vaguely remembered hearing a wail. It sounded like her. She wasn't sure.

Cold, strong fingers pulled her face upwards, a voice was calling her name and bleary blue eyes locked onto golden eyes.

"Chikyuu has been purged," Bulma choked on the words, her entire form shaking like a sapling in a storm.

"Chikyuu has been purged," She repeated, her voice stronger, steadier as she stared into a beautiful, blue face framed by emerald hair.

"Chikyuu. Has been. Purged." Clarity regained, things fell into place, and Bulma recognized Zarbon.

She doesn't know how the soul wrenching ache of losing her world could burn into mindless blind-rage so quickly. She launched herself at the blue-skinned officer, her hands wrapping tightly around his throat, wishing with every fiber of her being he was dead and not her world. She gripped as tight as she could but felt no give beneath her fingers.

A sharp blow to her stomach knocked the wind out of her and sent her reeling back into reality.

"Now, now, love. There's no reason to throw a temper tantrum," Zarbon chided.

From the ground where she stumbled, she looked up at the serene expression on his face and blanched. "You're going to kill me now."

He looked genuinely surprised at what she said. "Do you want me to?"

"N-no," she swallowed, trying to calm the hammering of her heart, trying to hold onto the dying wish the deity had asked of her. "But you lied to me! You promised me Chikyuu would be spared!"

"From my men, yes. Oh, you didn't know that Saiyans are not under my direct command, did you?" He simpered patronizingly.

To her confusion, he scooped her into his arms. There was a collective gasp from the tech slaves, medics, and Soldiers who had gathered. Zarbon turned to one of the medics and instructed him to "Prepare a regen tank. I'm afraid I must punish my little toy here and she's going to need one."

Bulma began to struggle against him, her fear and panic overriding her ability to remember the Ki-nullifying gun she kept encapsulated in her pocket. She could do nothing to escape as he brought her into a private med-bay room, away from prying eyes to spare her dignity, he told her.

"You're still a Slave and I am still your Master. While I find your spirit and temper entertaining and productive, I must still set an example. I promise you, love, I will not marr your face or risk the dexterity of your hands."

He gave her a smile, and it reached his eyes. She can't remember ever seeing anything so terrifying before.

Zarbon set her on her feet, leaned down to plant a tender kiss on her forehead, and simultaneously broke one of her ribs. Before she could draw the breath to scream, he broke a different section of the same rib. His lips brushed against the tip of her nose, and he fractured her clavicle. Only by the sixth injury did she finally managed to let loose a keen.

Each gentle caress he gave her preceded a vicious blow that mottled skin, shredded muscle, and snapped bone. Bulma lost count of how many parts of her body he broke. Her throat was torn from all her screaming, and her lungs burned.

"This will be enough, love," She heard Zarbon croon softly to her, felt him thread his bloodied fingers through her sweat-soaked hair. The door slid open and shadows loomed over her. "Place her in the regen tank but do not let anyone near her. Remind anyone who tries that she still holds my fancy and I will do worse to them than I have her."

Instead of the disgusted "Fuck your fancy!" that she tried to snarl at him, all that managed to slip past her crimson-stained lips was a wet gurgle.

"Don't look at me like that, love, you only brought this on yourself," Zarbon shook his head, gold eyes completely free of remorse.

The medics eased her into a healing chamber and as the mask slipped over her face, she gave herself to the darkness.

_The tinny beeping sequence indicated the tank had finished its job. Bulma had spent a full day in the chamber and emerged exhausted. The medic sent word to Zarbon before handing the tech slave a fresh change of clothes. She refused and asked for her blood-drenched uniform, which they had thrown into the incinerator for sanitary reasons._

_Bulma bit back a scream. This meant she would have to rebuild her Ki-pistol!_

_Slowly, she got dressed and was about to ask if she could possibly stay in the infirmary for the night when the blue-skinned officer entered. She froze, nearly forgetting to breath until Kami's words echoed in her mind._

You must survive, or else all hope is lost for Chikyuu and its people.

_The steel in her will returned and she straightened herself. She let him pull her into a gentle embrace, shuddering at his touch. He mistakes it as a shiver of fear and purred._

_"It is wise to fear me, love. Come to my bed just for tonight. I promise I will only hold you."_

_"And if I refuse?" she whispered, the sharp edge in her voice taking him by surprise._

_He studied her and decided that "Perhaps it is too soon since your punishment. Go to your room, love. We will have plenty of time to talk."_

_Somehow she found the strength to stumble to her private bedroom before wearily sinking into her bed. As sleep claimed her, she clung to the thought that she was now the last Chikyuu-jin left._


	3. Driving Force

**Warning: **Some violence ahead**.  
Author's Notes: **Thank you to everyone who reviewed or fav'd or added this fic to their alert, they're very much appreciated. I'm actually a little nervous that the quality is tapering off so please don't hesitate to comment. I offer no excuses just my admitting I had a really hard time writing this chapter. As for how I interpreted the prompt, Indigo's pretty close to dark blue, which is the color I associate with Vegeta. And yes, they _finally_ meet in this update. Whether that is a good thing, I don't know.

* * *

**Prompt:** Indigo  
**Chapter Three:** Driving Force

One week spent in cryo-sleep was more than enough to mend Vegeta of his wounds and fatigue. Though the transformation into his Oozaru form, and the energy he spent to maintain it during his weeklong purge of Chikyuu had taxed him immensely, rapid Saiyan healing coupled with undisturbed rest left him stronger than ever.

Were it not for the damned protocols and the fact that he knew Frieza would be monitoring him, he wouldn't willingly suffer being in the medical wing of the planet-base, getting poked and prodded by the reptilian medics and their shrew-like assistants. They finished quickly; the menacing glower he constantly threw at them had served as a wonderful incentive. And none too soon as his patience grew thin and his mood turned foul. The last thing he needed when he finally stepped outside the infirmary was a shrill squeal piercing the air and threatening to rupture his eardrums.

Vegeta should have just shook his head clear, snarl at no one in particular, and head to his room to sort out his next step. But whoever it was had obviously lost the desire to continue with his life and decided to invite death by offending the Saiyan's sensitive hearing. He ground his teeth as he stalked down the halls, his tail lashing behind him in search of the individual who did not have long to live. He had sensed a Ki signature then frowned when he realized there were two of them.

They were so close together that the larger energy had eclipsed the weaker signature. A Soldier and a Slave having a dalliance, Vegeta assumed in annoyance. That explained the squeal. Or it would have, had the large Ki not suddenly bottomed out to near nothing. Curious, and his earlier grievance forgotten, Vegeta soon came upon a most surprising sight.

Sprawled on his back was the Saiyan's self-proclaimed rival: Cui. The purple alien's tongue lolled limply out of his mouth, his eyes had rolled into the back of his skull, while the rest of him twitched in erratic spurts. Standing over his fallen form was a pleasure slave. Rather, Vegeta thought she was a pleasure slave. As he drank in the rich cream of her skin, the waves of exotic sky-blue hair ending at her shoulders, he eventually noticed she was dressed in the grease-stained coveralls of a tech slave. Perhaps that was why she did not gaze down at the fallen Soldier with the glassy, doll-like emptiness so typical of pleasure slaves. But Vegeta couldn't see the cause for the self-satisfied spark in those bright, blue eyes. She couldn't possibly be the reason Cui was a quivering mass of jelly at her feet, could she?

The woman bent down to retrieve the cap that lay discarded on the floor, dusting it off lightly with a slim hand while muttering something beneath her breath. A gentle smile broke across her face. Then she kicked the Soldier in the ribs.

Vegeta couldn't hold back a chuckle when the woman winced, her work boots provided little protection compared to the battle armor Cui wore. She turned at the sound and gasped, the color draining from her face in abject terror. Something flickered in her bright blue eyes, then the fear broke and twisted into unmitigated hatred and loathing. He could see the muscles in her shoulders tense, the faint trembling of her arms as she fought to control herself. Did she think to sprint down the halls, to flee like the frightened deer she was moments ago? Or better yet, did she think to attack him despite her pathetic lack of Ki?

She did both, in a manner of speaking. Her eyes shot him a brief look, one of rage and disgust, so pure in its intensity it would have felled a lesser man, and if she had a warrior's strength flowing through her veins, it might have even winded Vegeta. In the next instant, she had donned the mantle of the meek servant with the same ease as she had donned her cap, wordlessly tucking her hair under the brim while she turned on her heels and calmly walked away.

The Saiyan felt his temper flare at her insolence, how _dare_ she, this fragile, worthless slave, turn her back on him! "Are you aware, woman, that you just issued me a challenge?" he growled, low in his throat. He watched in satisfaction the way she stopped mid-step, her entire body going rigid as his words sunk in, her hands balling into tight, shaking fists.

"It wouldn't be much of a challenge," she answered with a note of caution in her voice.

"No, it would not," he agreed, and to prove it, he was suddenly in front of her.

The woman let out a startled cry as she stumbled back, her arm shooting out to brace herself against the wall, keeping herself from completely losing her balance and preserving some shred of her dignity. He heard her softly hiss something in an alien tongue, an insult judging by her sharp tone, before she once again seemed to wilt in his presence and lowered her head.

"It would be very one-sided," she whispered, her head angled forward so that he couldn't see what expression she was making from behind the bill of her cap. Well, he would remedy that.

In the blink of an eye, he had snatched the cap away and set it alight with his Ki. His dark eyes followed the fall of her hair tumbling free as they framed her fair face and delicate features. He found himself smirking at the furious scarlet her cheeks burned, at the protective way she folded her arms across her chest, and at the defiance in her gaze before she had the presence of mind to turn away.

"Undoubtedly one-sided." He took a step toward her, his smirk pulling into a predatory grin as he dropped the charred remnants of her headwear to the floor.

She stood her ground, which both surprised and amused him, but her hair had fallen into her eyes, hiding the thoughts that were running through her head, and she made no motion to brush the strands away. "There would be little point or satisfaction in winning that kind of fight," she said coldly, her hands still folded across her chest, more defiant than defensive.

"A victory is still a victory, even if it is against a weakling," was his mocking response, along with the firm grip he placed on her arm, yanking her close to him so he could look into her eyes. He was not disappointed in the fire he saw blazing in those sky-blue orbs, and he gave what was more a growl than a purr of hunger at the fear that mingled with her sweet scent. Gods, how was this beauty not a pleasure slave?

His other hand wound about her waist, pressing her up against him so tightly he could feel the mad hammering of her heartbeat against his chest. She gnashed her teeth in a futile struggle to free herself, having neither strength nor leverage to break from his grip.

"Let me go!" She hissed, the lack of resigned desperation in her voice practically screaming to him that she was not broken. Highly unusual for a slave that did not require a Ki-dampening collar.

But then again, Vegeta had only come into contact with the medical and pleasure slaves, never having given the engineers much notice before. He was raised to believe using machines to fight were only for weaklings and not true warriors. As such he had no reason to seek out their service. Were all tech slaves as strong-willed as her? Would that make coercing them into aiding his search for the Dragon Balls without alerting Frieza more difficult?

Unconsciously his grip tightened. The woman cringed, biting back a whimper of pain, her gaze downcast as she continued trying to escape to no avail. He eased his hold on her but gave her no quarter to pull away, he grinned wolfishly. "You must be a recent acquisition to still be so spirited."

"Or maybe I just make a very convincing actor," she snapped.

"Is that a fact?" He studied her with a smirk, releasing her arm to trail his hand up her slender neck while the other shamelessly cupped the curve of her rear. The soft gasp of pleasure she made at his touch pulled his lips into a smug grin. "So is this simply a costume and you're about to return to the Pleasure Quarters, whore?

She stiffened at his words, the faint crimson of her cheeks turning into a full flush. "I am no whore, you asshole!" she screeched, her voice an octave higher from outrage. "I am a technician on this base!"

"But you are still a _slave_," Vegeta sneered, placing extra emphasis on the word. His face suddenly grew dark upon sensing a high Ki signature approach and he snarled at the woman to be still.

"I sent Cui to retrieve you, but it seems you were both sidetracked," chided the smooth, untrustworthy voice of Zarbon.

If Vegeta hadn't been holding the woman so close against him, he would have missed the minute ripple of terror that shuddered through her body when the blue officer arrived. Then a relieved, pathetic simper lit her face as she turned towards the emerald-haired man. The Saiyan scowled, so she'd been spared from the Pleasure Quarters because she was the fancy boy's current favorite? His displeasure at learning Zarbon was on this planet-base multiplying tenfold and the thought of Zarbon having touched this woman in any way made the Saiyan's stomach turn. He roughly shoved her aside, lips curling into sneer at the look of concern in Zarbon's gold eyes when he dashed forward to catch the slave before she struck the wall.

"Are you alright, love?" Zarbon asked, refusing to let her go until he was certain the woman could steady herself on her own two feet.

"Yes, I'm fine," she nodded, smiling sweetly with the docile deference of a pleasure slave in the presence of her master. Her eyes were devoid of the life and fire she had shown earlier, and had Vegeta not seen it for himself he would never believed she wasn't broken.

"If I see so much as a mark on her you're going to find yourself volunteering for Target Practice." Zarbon warned; his lips curled in disdain for the Saiyan, an arm outstretched protectively in front of the woman. "And you can be certain you'll be wearing a Ki-damper."

"I'm alright, there's no need for this," the tech slave softly insisted, placing a delicate hand on the officer's arm while she gazed up at his face imploringly.

The Saiyan Prince snorted in disgust at the crooning exchange between the two, and it earned him a backhand that sent him crashing to the wall, stars winking before his eyes, his ears ringing. He sprang back to his feet, fangs bared and ready to duke it out with the blue officer, not caring how the vast difference in their Kis was not in his favor. But his opponent didn't seem interested in letting this little spat go any further, if anything the emerald-haired man regarded Vegeta's stance with blatant boredom, as if he posed no threat.

With a snarl, Vegeta kicked off from the ground, eager and ready to drive his curled fist deep into the cocky officer's gut. A boot heel struck the back of the Saiyan's head with an audible crack, driving him face-down onto the floor. Vegeta's vision swam before his eyes as he shook off the dizzying pain of the blow.

"Stand down, Monkey."

His head shot up at the bigger warrior's command, the intention to defy the order evident in his dark, onyx eyes. He bristled in anger when Zarbon turned away to give the woman an affectionate pat on the head while softly murmuring an apology that she had to witness such a barbaric display.

"You should know it's the only way to keep _some_ people in line, love," was the gentle explanation given, before Zarbon leaned down to plant a kiss on her forehead.

Crouched on the floor, Vegeta did not miss the way the woman's eyes grew saucer-wide or the way her throat seized in fright at the display of tenderness Zarbon was showing her. He recognized that brand of dread draining the color from her skin. He'd seen it before, the chilling, gut-wrenching fear borne of knowing there would be no mercy or escape. There were plenty of individuals who had that same look on their face just before the Saiyan slew them.

But Zarbon just smiled kindly at her, greedily drinking in the sight of her agitation. "Now off with you, my sweet. I will send for you after I've dealt with our friend here."

She blinked, finally coming out of her terrified stupor to quickly leave, arms wrapped around her trembling shoulders, her aqua hair trailing after her. The instant she had disappeared around the corner Zarbon had Vegeta by the throat, yanking him aloft, then roughly slamming him back to the ground with a tremendous, vicious force so at odds with the casual nonchalance in the blue man's posture.

"Now you listen to me, Monkey, and listen well because I don't like repeating myself," it was a harsh, reptilian hiss so different from the customary smooth elegance of Zarbon's voice, but Vegeta had no doubt this was the officer's true nature. A ball of Ki began to form in the Saiyan's palm, only to be snuffed out when the heel of a heavy foot stomped down, crushing his wrist like kindling, and tearing a blood curling howl from his throat.

"I told you to _listen_," Zarbon clucked his tongue as he brought the same foot to rest atop Vegeta's chest, bearing down with enough force that warned the smaller warrior if he did not do as the officer said, he would be in for a very unpleasant time. When Zarbon was certain he had the Saiyan's undivided attention he continued. "For the failure of your kinsmen to purge Chikyuu the first time and your squad member's failure the second, you as Squad Captain are hereby Grounded and must remain planet-bound until Lord Frieza decides otherwise. Everyone on this planet-base has been informed of your sentence and they've all been given permission to forcibly detain you if you try to escape."

The emerald-haired man seemed to preen as he spoke, absently putting his full weight on the foot atop Vegeta's chest, taking the sickening snap of a sternum fracturing as a mere suggestion to ease off. Fingers closed round the officer's ankle, muscles struggling and straining against the immovable weight that made breathing difficult if not near impossible, able to do little else than rasp a curse.

"She's quite lovely, isn't she? I'll thank you to keep your grubby little paws off her. She's only half-broken, and I intend to be the one to fully break her," Zarbon said casually, his eyes staring at the corridor the tech slave had disappeared to before glancing down at the injured Soldier with a wicked grin. "You can have her when I'm done, although I doubt you'll live long enough for that."

Darkness began to creep into Vegeta's vision but he pushed it away, his mind anchoring himself to the present through his self-control and force of will despite the searing pain that wracked his body, despite the boiling rage and black hate for the blue-skinned bastard looming over him. Though no more words were exchanged between them, he was aware of the contempt Zarbon for him, evidenced in how Vegeta was painfully dragged by his tail back to the infirmary.

Unceremoniously, the warrior was dumped at the feet of the same team of medics and lab assistants that had given him a clean bill of health just moments earlier.

"Patch him up," Zarbon reluctantly ordered before leaving the healers to their work. Even at the threshold of unconsciousness, Vegeta still threw menacing glowers as encouragement to speed things up.

* * *

An hour and a half later found Vegeta completely healed and thoroughly pissed off, all thoughts of stealing a pod and heading to Nameksei momentarily set aside. It wasn't that he feared having the whole contingent chasing after him, he could easily annihilate most of the Soldiers stationed on this planet-base. No, he didn't want to risk Frieza discovering his motives. No one will have the Dragon Balls except Vegeta! And once he wished for immortality, he would finally be able to free himself from the service of the old tyrant.

But thoughts of eternal life did little to quell the desire to kill Frieza. The want, brewing from the very pit of his soul was so overwhelming it took every last ounce of his self-control to keep himself from razing the medical wing the moment he emerged from the regeneration tank. His rage over his wounded pride, which Zarbon had wounded far more severely than his body with the almost effortless manner the officer had pummeled him while informing him of his humiliating punishment, just made his temper worse.

"You're healed enough for a Training Sim session," the Head Medic suggested from behind a large, beeping contraption, wary of the barely restrained fury radiating from the warrior. And for an instant the healer thought he saw his life flash before him when the pair of dangerous obsidian eyes narrowed at him. But no Ki blast came, no solid fist shattering skull like brittle glass, just a vicious, incoherent snarl, then the soft hum of the door sliding open and close.

It was a feral beast that stalked its way from the medical wing towards the Training Complex, a feral beast masquerading itself as the man called Vegeta. It was the man who entered the facility. But it was the beast that cleared out an occupied training simulator by just baring his fangs and letting his Ki rise above the surface of his skin. The blur of motion, of bodies shoving past each other to flee, was met with a snort of derision.

The Saiyan stepped into the spacious, circular structure, noting the visible differences between the simulators he had been accustomed to using and the one he was about to use. There were grooves etched onto the walls and floors, no doubt panels that would open to reveal weapons or machinery and he scoffed at how predictable it would undoubtedly be.

"Set it to its highest danger level," he commanded, his tail wound tight around his waist, senses sharp and alert, Scouter nowhere on his person.

The tech slave managing that particular simulator hesitated from his vantage point in the control tower nestled high above the room, behind several feet of re-enforced alloy walls. "Th-there's been some modifications to the program," the electronic voice stammered through the speakers. "We-we were just about to start a new session and it requires a warm-up bout a-and it can't start any higher than five."

"I don't fucking care!" Vegeta snarled, his Ki shooting up with each word. And he really didn't care. All he wanted was to tear, to blast, to destroy and rend and maim anything he could get his hands on, even if they were only a poor substitute for the necks he truly sought to snap, for the lives he sorely wanted to end since he had been taken from his world as a young boy.

"Turn it on. _Now!_" he seethed, glaring up at a specific section of the dome, looking directly at the tech slave in a warning that no amount of walls will save him if he didn't obey.

The lights dimmed and the entire room began to vibrate.

_I should make short work of this,_ Vegeta mentally snorted. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and they widened when they saw the floor and walls had begun to rearrange themselves, sliding away, collapsing into each other, or sinking below at a speed the simulators of old had never managed. Automatons and battledroids sprang out and began firing, laser pistols emerging from every inconspicuous surface, their muzzles thrumming with power.

He smirked, easily avoiding the first volley of blasts, and with savage precision, he began to decimate everything the simulator threw at him. Levels five, six, even seven proved no challenge to Vegeta thanks to the sudden jump in his strength due to his recent set of injuries.

But level eight took him by surprise.

Whoever designed the changes to the Simulator had given it an ability to learn from the current bouts. Fighting patterns, power levels, everything was being scanned and analyzed and it adjusted its reaction accordingly. A faint shimmer appeared around the droids before they blinked out of view. They had no living Ki to trace, and the frequency of the cloaking shield made them invisible to even Scouters. A low growl of anticipation rumbled in Vegeta's throat as he prepared for the onslaught.

He emerged the victor but he was not unscathed.

Bruised and panting for breath, Vegeta ordered level nine to begin. The difficulty level had not increased so drastically, whoever designed this did not build it with the intention of killing its user, for which Vegeta was mortified to find he was grateful. Despite the tech slave's desperate suggestion for him to stop, Vegeta forced himself to complete level ten despite the bruises mottling his skin, and the series of sear marks on his back. Tenacity, pride, the inability to back down from a challenge so ingrained in his race, and the sincere, unabashed need to grow stronger, strong enough to not only defeat but _kill_ Frieza, gave Vegeta the needed strength to complete level ten.

The consecutive bouts had taken its toll on Vegeta, and he let his body sag to the floor to rest atop the gutted remains of an automaton.

"D-do you need us to call you a medic team, Sir Vegeta?" the electronic voice tentatively asked.

"I can get to the medical wing on my own," he snarled, his tail bristling irritably in offense. "But I would like to speak with the Mastertech."

"W-which one?"

Another snarl, this one accompanied by a scowl, "The one who oversaw the modifications."

"Um, it was a team effort?"

"You are trying my patience, slave." Vegeta forced himself back on his feet, taking deep breaths to clear his mind. Frieza would be watching him by proxy of Zarbon, and by every single soldier on this base. As long as suspicious eyes were on him, he couldn't act. When the old lizard finally decides there was nothing to that encrypted message that stupid idiot Radditz sent, then Vegeta will force some tech slave into inputting the coordinates to Nameksei without alerting anyone. In the meantime, he would do the next best thing: Train to the point where he would not _need_ immortality. "Any available Mastertech will do."

A panel opened from the wall closest to the Saiyan, revealing a small monitor.

"I am Mastertech Chooco, you wished to speak to one of us, Sir Vegeta?" the Rawin-jin on the screen spoke evenly, showing neither fear nor contempt.

"Yes, you are aware of my situation, aren't you?" the warrior demanded.

"We were briefed," the avian alien nodded slowly.

"It will be in the best interest of every single individual on this base if I am preoccupied during my..."

"Visit?" supplied the Mastertech.

Vegeta smirked, "Yes, and as such, I will be commandeering this particular Training Simulator as my own. You will be in charge of upgrading the difficulty level of the programming and will-"

"Pardon me, Sir Vegeta, but I cannot do as you ask."

Obsidian eyes narrowed dangerously at the refusal.

Chooco raised his taloned hands placatingly, "It's because I wasn't involved in the upgrades and modifications. I can, however, assign the tech slave who was responsible for a great deal of the Training Simulator."

"See to it that you do."

"If I or the other tech slaves are unable to stop the other Soldiers from using this specific Training Simulator, what are we to do?"

"Nothing."

Beady, black eyes blinked in confusion, "Nothing?"

"Nothing. I will make examples of them myself."

The screen immediately switched off at the sight of the evil, cruel smile gracing the Saiyan's lips.

* * *

Once there was a time when Bulma loved to dress up, when wearing an elegant gown that hugged her form in a loving embrace made her giddy with excitement, when primping in front of a vanity promised an enjoyable evening. This was not one of those times. _It hasn't been one of those times for almost a year now,_ the Chikyuu-jin bitterly thought as she carefully secured her long aqua tresses into a plait reminiscent to that of Zarbon's.

She shuddered, her heart jumping to her throat at the thought of the blue-skinned officer, almost failing to force back the memories of the brutal punishment he gave her barely a week ago. She couldn't afford to think about it too much, not because the prospect of such agonizing pain paralyzed her with fear but because she was on borrowed time. There was no way to know how powerful Nameksei's Dragon Balls are or their limitations, she only knew she couldn't dwell too long on too many thoughts about too many things stemming from too many emotions she couldn't afford to feel. She wouldn't have the strength to go on otherwise. She had to escape and get to Kami's homeworld in less than a year, or else there would be no hope, no chance to revive her world.

But she had to be careful. No doubt Zarbon expected her to be less willful after tasting his cruelty and learning of Chikyuu's fate. She needed an excuse, something to explain why she wasn't a broken, empty shell of her former self. And the answer came to her in the form of the bastard who purged her home.

Rather than a shudder it was heat that coursed through her body when she thought of her encounter with the Saiyan.

She and Miint had taken the long route to the Training Complex, entering the medical wing and walking down its winding corridors when the Rawin-jin whispered into Bulma's ear. "I've been promoted to free-man tech."

Blue eyes widened and they both stopped in their tracks. Miint looked apprehensive and apologetic, her beak opening and closing awkwardly in a failed attempt at speech. A loud, ear-splitting squeal shot out of Bulma a heartbeat before she flung her arms around her friend.

"I'm so happy for you!" the Chikyuu-jin exclaimed, ignoring the flustered squawks from Miint.

"Well, well, well, aren't you two slaves supposed to be recalibrating something or other in the Training Complex?" came the sneering voice of Cui.

Both females shifted uncomfortably in his presence, Miint out of resentment and Bulma out of disgust. Of the two, only the Rawin-jin could openly show her contempt without consequences. Bulma had to content herself with glaring at the sharpshooting instructor from behind the bill of her cap. The way all the tech slaves would at anyone higher ranked than them.

"I'm not a tech slave anymore, _grunt,_" the avian female softly screeched. "Free-man techs do not answer to anyone but Mastertechs, and-"

"And officers ranked Captain and higher, I'm well aware of protocols. But I'm also aware that your rights are limited to your person and doesn't extend to her."

The Chikyuu-jin felt a feathered arm gently push her back, heard the low, menacing warble of the free-man tech as she asked Cui "Your point being?"

"I can't touch _you_, but you can't keep me from touching her."

"I'm surprised you would even want to after your sudden allergy attack," Bulma smirked.

"And what does Zarbon have to say about it?" Miint followed through.

Cui visibly stiffened then mirrored the blue-haired woman's smirk, "I informed him that I was suffering from a medical condition and told him I was advised constant exposure to the source of my allergy."

The free-man snorted in disbelief and was about to unleash all the resentment she'd had to suppress from so many years of living in fear but Bulma stopped her, concern and worry for her friend shining clear in the blue-haired inventor's eyes.

"No, Miint, it's alright. Maybe this time when he goes into a seizure, he'll choke on his own tongue," Bulma suggested, flashing the soldier a patently false smile of sweetness. Then she leaned in close and whispered to the Rawin-jin "I'm going to have to learn to defend myself if you get stationed off-world."

After shooting him a warning glare, Miint reluctantly left Bulma alone with Cui. In an instant, a strong grip held Bulma by her throat, slack enough that she could breathe but tight enough she couldn't wriggle free. Her hand was in her pocket closing around the encapsulated, half-finished Ki-pistol, slightly confident that the untested weapon wouldn't explode.

She held the soldier's gaze, keeping his attention on her face and felt him suddenly slam her against the wall, knocking the wind from her lungs and the cap off her head.

"This is getting old," she hissed at him through grit teeth.

"Not for me, you little blue whore," Cui sneered, his face dangerously close. He laughed when azure eyes flared in fury at the insult, noting the familiarity of the soft pop that reached his ears. He didn't have time to wonder what it was as a jolt coursed through his entire frame, setting his insides on fire and his body convulsing as if he'd just touched a live wire.

Bulma stared down at the writhing soldier lying at her feet, her face a careful blank mask until he stilled save for the occasional twitch. She studied her Ki-pistol, frowning that the energy cells had spent themselves completely, which meant it would take time for them to recharge, most likely half an hour before she could use it again. Making a mental note to fix that issue the moment she was back in her room, she encapsulated the weapon and stuffed it back into her pocket before turning her attention back to Cui.

He had lost consciousness she noted, pleased that at even on its lowest setting her weapon had such a powerful effect. She bent down to retrieve her fallen cap, dusting it off as she murmured. "Now _this_ never gets old."

A gentle smile graced her lips. Then she kicked him hard in the ribs. She yelped in pain, fearing she'd bruised her toes when the tips of her work boots smacked against the solid battle armor Cui wore. She would have let loose a string of curses had she not heard a chuckle.

The tech slave froze in horror that someone had seen her attack Cui, worse still it was another Soldier. She hadn't seen this particular warrior before she realized. Her heart hammered in her chest, fearing unfamiliar Soldiers more than anything as they were less likely to follow the unspoken rules established. She studied him from behind the genuine mask of fear, trying to gauge what sort of person he was, besides the usual murdering, vicious, and sadistic asshole all the Soldiers seemed to be. Her stomach knotted at the cruel smirk on his face, his sharp features the perfect image of feral elegance, the widow's peak of his upswept hair as dark and severe as the dangerous gleam in his obsidian eyes.

In another time, in another life, she would have admitted to herself that she thought him handsome. But Bulma had no time to feel concern at that idea when her eyes fell upon the tail wound about his waist.

_Oh, you didn't know that Saiyans are not under my direct command, did you?_ Zarbon's words suddenly whispered unbidden in her mind.

Memories of her homeworld flashed before her eyes, of her parents lounging in the kitchen, of her friends engaged in a friendly spar with each other, and realization hits her. Hard. She was looking at the son of a bitch responsible for the death of her world. It was all she could do not to lunge at him the way she had Zarbon. Not to give herself to the hate that surged through her frail form, as raw and potent as the grief she'd felt when she learned her world had been purged, so powerful and overwhelming it banished fear.

The hate shook her limbs as it forced its way to the surface, emerging in her eyes and in the mien of her body, burning away the blank mask she'd come to wear around Soldiers until only her loathing and disgust remained etched all over her delicate features. She saw the amused smirk disappear from the Saiyan's face. And then she did what she'd done ever since she emerged from the regeneration tank. She stamped down her feelings viciously, so deep and so hard pulling on the disguise of the submissive slave felt natural and easy, like putting her cap back on her head and wordlessly walking away.

She could hear her heartbeat pounding loudly in her head. But not loud enough to keep her from hearing the threat he spoke in his sultry baritone. She should have just apologized, cowered and pretended to be sorry for offending him. And had he been anyone but the bastard that purged her world, she might have managed to swallow her pride, and rage, and anger. But her temper got the better of her, and her words rose in her throat, before she knew it she'd engaged him in an argument, making her situation so much worse.

She soon found herself trapped in his unbreakable grip, his wicked, onyx eyes hungrily studying her, his touch on her skin a delicious intensity she had never experienced even from Yamcha's loving hands. Kami, how was this possible? She'd been groped before, been caught in a Soldier's unforgiving embrace but she only broke out into a cold sweat or was left chilled to the bone. It was never this shock of heat that blossomed into a traitorous gasp of desire. She struggled, against him and the panic clutching at her heart, knowing she had no way to stop him should he give into the primal want radiating from him.

Bulma had never been so grateful to see Zarbon until that moment. Despite the instinctive terror she felt in his presence it was nothing to the burning heat the Saiyan caused her, she concluded the manipulative officer was the lesser evil. And so here she was standing at the entrance to his quarters, her hair mirroring his, her gown of blood red beginning at the swell of her breasts, dipping low to the small of her back and ending at her ankles. As the door open and Zarbon's smiling face invited her in, she couldn't help but reevaluate her decision.

* * *

Most Soldiers only reported to the medical wing once or twice in a week, never if they could help it. Vegeta had set a new record, the medics whispered while he was in the regen tanks, having reported to the medic bay thrice in one day and tended to by the same team each time.

His third visit was not as brutal as his second, the time spent floating in the healing liquid only a fourth of the duration his bout with Zarbon had landed him. All the same, he was getting severely tired of the building but if the tech slave who had upgraded the Training Simulator wanted to live, Vegeta might actually learn the names of the medics.

The Saiyan grinned darkly at the prospect of increasing his power each time he sustained any injury. He would have to learn how to suppress his Ki if he wanted his progress to go unnoticed. Of course he would also have to threaten the tech slave into secrecy but that would be easy enough.

He slowly made his way to where the Squad Captains slept, frowning that it housed Zarbon's quarters as well. Even if he were loath to be in the same vicinity as Frieza's fancy lapdog, he had the consolation that his room was as far away from Zarbon's as possible. Entering the building, his Ki skimmed the air, counting the individual signatures within the structure to see whom he could be up against.

Many thought to take a more proactive approach when it came to their opportunities. It wasn't unusual for Soldiers to attempt to murder each other while they slept. If there wasn't an empty slot they could fill, well, what's to stop them from _creating_ one on their own?

Vegeta smirked. He and his squad perfectly adopted the ruthlessness of the practice, as if it were second nature to them. The smirk disappeared at the memory of his slain comrades, replaced with a frown at the odd sliver of pain in his chest. No more Radditz to insult and belittle for being a low-borne Third-Class. No more Nappa to keep in line after losing control and flying into a blind rage.

The frown deepened into a full-fledged scowl and he tries to push these thoughts out of his mind. But it was too late. It had taken root and it had no intentions of releasing him until the he acknowledged the reality.

He was a Squad Captain in a squad of one.

He was a Prince of a people dead and gone.

He was alone. Truly and utterly alone.

With a snarl he shook his head. Such nonsense could only be the result of his fatigue and exhaustion. A good night's sleep was all he needed. There will be no more of this foolish sentimentality to distract him from his goal of immortality and revenge.

The tinny ding of the elevator caught his ear and he turned towards the sound. His onyx eyes widened in surprise, his breath caught in his throat at the woman that appeared when the doors parted. She was beautiful when he first saw her standing over Cui's body, despite the baggy coveralls and the smell of machinery. In that gown the hue of freshly spilled blood, she was a vision. He wanted to run his hands over the creamy skin of her bare shoulders, to have her slender arms clinging to him, her legs wrapped around his waist, whimpers of both pain and pleasure pouring from her mouth.

"Pardon me," her lips spoke.

_Move!_ Her eyes glared.

Vegeta smirked and stood his ground, blocking her path just enough to force her to brush up against him. As she maneuvered herself past him, he suddenly growled in distaste. He could smell Zarbon on her. Of _course_ she would reek of the blue man, she was his little whore after all.

"Off to return to the Pleasure Quarters?" he sneered. Inwardly, he cringed how his tail had grabbed her wrist by its own accord. He glowered at her quirked a brow, and his tail gripped tighter at her infuriatingly patronizing smile.

"Zarbon must have beaten you so badly you forgot that I'm a technician," she crooned, blue eyes glittering in feigned sympathy.

"Dressed like that, anyone would be hard pressed not to mistake you for a whore."

"I'm in too good a mood to let even the likes of you get to me," she scoffed, trying to wrench herself free from his tail.

"Fuck you real good, did he?" anger and disgust edged each sharp word he spat.

"He did better," she flashed him a brilliant smile, warm and hopeful and as radiant as the dawn. It took him by surprise long enough for her to pull free. She turned on her heels, sashaying towards the exit.

"And what exactly did he do?" he demanded of her retreating figure.

She stopped a few feet away. Slowly, she glanced at him over her shoulder, pearly white teeth peeking through lips pulled wide in a cold, vindictive, hate-filled smile to answer: "He gave me permission to make your life a living hell."

The certainty of her voice and the sincerity of her malice sent a chill up Vegeta's spine, briefly, before it burned away into outrage at being challenged once again by a weak, Ki-less slave. But he kept himself from striking at her, knowing that he wouldn't have to wait for too long before Zarbon grew tired of her. Once she no longer had his protection, she will pay.

"You'll find your efforts wasted, woman," he chuckled, "I would advise you to stay on your guard. I get the feeling _your_ life is about to become a living hell."

He bit back a laugh at her blanched face, regarding in amusement the ease with which she schooled her features back into an impassive doll. Zarbon was a blind fool to think she was half-broken. And Vegeta would be the one to have the pleasure of truly breaking her.

"You've already managed to make mine one," she hissed, her voice so low it was nearly inaudible, her hands balling into tight fists before finally leaving.

As the woman disappeared into the night, it occurred to Vegeta that he didn't even know her name.


	4. Games We Play

**Warnings: **None  
**Author's Notes:** Yes, it took me forever to write this. Yes, I fully intend to finish this fic. No, I have no excuse other than my own utter ineptitude. No, I have no idea how long it'll take me to write the next part. I only offer my sincerest apologies.

**Prompt:** Orange**  
Part Four:** Games We Play

* * *

The first thing Zarbon had done after depositing the badly beaten Saiyan at the infirmary was to inform his liege that he had successfully carried out the Tsiru-jin's instructions. It wasn't simply because of standard operating procedures, which it was, but Zarbon knew better than to keep Frieza waiting for too long. The instant the Saiyan's pod uploaded the coordinates of its destination to the main computer, Frieza made it very clear the blue officer was to do everything in his power to make sure Vegeta knew he was grounded.

While Zarbon had long ceased trying to figure out the reasoning behind his liege's actions (as he'd long figured out that Frieza was stark raving mad but he wasn't about to say that out loud), he couldn't help but feel there was more to it than that. Decades of service under the tyrant lizard had proven to the blue officer that Frieza always had something else in mind. And as he waited for his master to appear in the monitor, he also couldn't help but feel a strange sense of dread looming in the fringe of his consciousness.

"The Saiyan has been made aware of his punishment, Lord Frieza," Zarbon reported as he bowed low to the Tsiru-jin. "And I have made it very clear that you will not tolerate disobedience."

"Excellent work, Zarbon-kun," the effeminate voice crooned in approval.

"When are we to expect your arrival, oh Gracious one?"

A sharp-nailed finger tapped gingerly against a pale cheek, "Oh, it could be six weeks or six months, you know how I enjoy indulging in my flights of fancy."

"Whenever is convenient for you. Do you require anything else of me, My Lord?" he asked, still bowed at the waist, his plaited emerald hair falling over his shoulder.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I do." For all intents and purposes the Tsiru-jin sounded pleased. But after years of being Frieza's right hand man, Zarbon knew he should be bracing himself for his own punishment. "It seems our friends on Rioglo-sei are causing an uproar and I require your skill to handle them."

Rioglo-sei was home to some of the Planet Trade's more problematic clientele. Extremely wealthy, extremely powerful, and extremely lazy. Every warrior on Frieza's payroll knew that being sent to deal with the Rioglo-jins was more of a punishment than an actual task. The blue officer righted himself, his shock briefly flitting across his handsome features before he regained his composure, "But Lord Frieza, what about the Saiyan?"

"What _about_ Vegeta-chan?" the Tsiru-jin quirked a brow, the corner of his purple lips curving upward in an amused smirk. "You've informed him of his punishment, haven't you? And the entire base is aware of it, yes?"

"I have carried out your instructions," Zarbon nodded, "I'm simply concerned whether it's wise to leave him here without proper supervision?"

A pale, slender finger waggled chidingly at the blue officer, "Are you saying you doubt me, Zarbon-kun?"

"N-no! Of course not, Lord Frieza! It's just that given Vegeta's current level of power, anyone but myself would be hard-pressed to enforce his punishment," he reasoned.

Painted lips chuckled and pulled into an enigmatic smile, "Oh silly, silly Zarbon-kun, that's _exactly_ why I'm sending you to Rioglo-sei."

There was no arguing with Frieza or his decisions. "As you wish, I shall depart immediately," Zarbon begrudgingly acquiesced, as the option of refusing meant his life was forfeit, decades of loyal servitude be damned.

"Good, I trust I can count you to handle _this_ task with utmost finesse, hmmmm?" The curve of Frieza's lips was nothing but wicked menace, beady eyes tapering into malicious slits, and Zarbon knew his liege was punishing him for failing to figure out what it was about Chikyuu that had interested the Saiyans. Wordlessly, the blue officer nodded his understanding and acceptance of his fate; once again bowing low at the waist, hoping the pale tyrant didn't see the momentary flash of dread in Zarbon's gold eyes.

The monitor switched off, and Zarbon found himself in a very foul mood. As he stalked down the halls from the communication room, he stopped at the path leading towards the infirmary. Perhaps he ought to taunt the Monkey Prince into attacking him again. Knocking the Saiyan around had always done wonders to cheer him up. But when he remembered someone would be waiting for him in his quarters, he decided to indulge in a little escapism before he was sent to the tedious hell that was Rioglo-sei.

Opening the door, a charming smile on his face (one that had sent a great many swooning), the blue officer was nearly taken aback by the grim determination in the blue-haired tech slave's eyes.

"Something on your mind, love?" he asked as he ushered Bulma into his quarters.

She nodded wordlessly, her eyes now downcast, chewing nervously on her lower lip.

"Ah, of course, how could I have forgotten?" He smiled, glad that the female recognized a rhetorical question when she heard one, "Your world was just purged and the one responsible is on this very planet-base. I can understand why you'd be upset-"

"Can you really?" she softly asked, peering up at him mournfully. "Were your people made extinct, your homeworld purged to be sold to the highest bidder by a heartless, Saiyan bastard?"

"If you put it _that_ way, I suppose I can't," he frowned, emerald brows knitting together in annoyance. Here he was, trying to extend her his sympathy and what does she do? She throws it back in his face. Even if it _was_ her spirit that had kept him interested in her for so long, he couldn't help but feel slighted. But not too long ago, his spies had reported she was at her breaking point. It was only a matter of time, he decided, before she gave herself to him in the way he had wanted her. It would take just a little longer, until then, he'll continue to treat her gently and with kindness, maybe a little seduction, and throw some lavish gifts into the mix for good measure.

Except he wouldn't have the opportunity to act on his plan thanks to that blasted Saiyan. Vegeta had _better_ try to escape while Zarbon was gone. Otherwise... The blue officer pushed the thought away and briefly wished Frieza had sent Dodoria to investigate Chikyuu instead of him.

"I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn, Zarbon," the whispered apology managed to draw his attention back to Bulma.

"Think nothing of it. I did promise you we would talk about it later. And now that it's later-"

"May I make a request of you?" She suddenly cut in.

He blinked in surprise and raised a curious brow, "What manner of request would this be, love?"

She looked away uncertainly, as if having second thoughts, before steeling herself to look him in the eye and ask, "May I seek revenge on the bastard that ruined my life?"

Well that was certainly not what he had expected. Apparently the Saiyan's arrival didn't sap her of her will. On the contrary, it had strengthened her. Given the sort of dangerous little constructs she was capable of creating, combined with Vegeta's uncanny ability to survive, this promised to be a very entertaining request. What else could he say but "Of course, love, you have my full support."

And the smile she gave him was relieved, and happy, and the tiniest bit deranged. "You _promise_?"

"You have my word," he nodded, absently deciding to instruct his spies to keep a close eye on both the Saiyan and the Chikyuu-jin during his absence. "And now let's have no more talk of the savage. I would like to enjoy the rest of my evening with you. Who knows when I'll be able to return from Rioglo-sei."

* * *

The first thing Bulma did upon returning to her room after that haranguing second encounter with the Saiyan was to change out of the dress and into something more suitable for sleep. The second thing she did was to finish work on her Ki-gun, because she did not trust the Kami damned Saiyan and would rather not have to meet him again unarmed. The third thing she did, after nearly two hours of non-stop work, was collapse on her bed in an exhausted heap, her finished and improved weapon clutched in her hand.

It wasn't even an hour since she fell unconscious, and it would be several more before dawn's first light, when Bulma woke to an uncomfortable knot in her gut telling her things were going to be eventful here on out. This worried her because nothing good ever came out the Planet Base being eventful because it usually meant someone was going to die. And with that Saiyan around, she wouldn't be surprised if it was her neck on the chopping block. She shuddered at the memory of those dark obsidian eyes, the unabashed hunger she had seen in them when they roved over her form, and worse still that inexplicable _heat_ when he had touched her. She shook her head clear and attempted to go back to sleep when the staccato of knuckles sharply rapping against her door filled her room.

With an annoyed sigh, she pulled her decapsulated Ki-gun behind her back, careful to keep it out of sight as she answered the door. Blue eyes blinked sleepily at the sight of Mastertech Chooco.

"Get dressed, Bulma of Chikyuu," he instructed, "I am to brief you on your new assignment. And you are to begin work at once."

Had this exact same scenario played out a year ago, and had Bulma not been a tech slave at the time, she would have gladly slammed the door in on the Rawin-jin's face. Except this wasn't the first time she would have to forgo sleep to work on something or other, and as she was still enslaved and her world's only hope of salvation, she sure as hell wasn't going to make a fuss.

Perhaps after she manages to make her wish on the Nameksei's set of dragon balls, she'll throw the massive tantrum that she'd been bottling up since Zarbon brought her here. For the time being, she would focus on keeping up the doll-act and figure out how in Kami's name she was supposed to even _get_ to Nameksei.

"Give me a second," she quietly requested as she closed the door, encapsulating her Ki-gun in one hand, and pulling her coveralls from the hanger with the other. Dressed and with her weapon safely tucked in her pocket, she stepped out of her room. Mastertech Chooco promptly started to drag her out of the building, all the while telling her she had no time to waste.

"What's the emergency?" Bulma asked, struggling to keep up with the avian alien's quick strides.

"There isn't one. Yet," Chooco bluntly responded, "Because you are to dedicate all your efforts in maintaining and upgrading the Training Simulator."

Her brows knitted together, "Okay, but couldn't this have waited in the morning?"

"No," Chooco snapped, unusually testy. "I would have informed you of this last night, but Zarbon would have torn my head off if I interrupted your evening with him." He ignored the sharp downturn of Bulma's mouth to continue, "Since you handled most of the Training Simulator's upgrades and programming, you have the unfortunate honor of being its sole caretaker for the duration of the Saiyan's stay on this Planet Base."

"Okay but why do you sound like you're going to die?"

"Because, Bulma of Chikyuu, the Saiyan is not a very patient man. And he expects what is now _his_ Training Simulator to be ready for him before the morning meal has been served. And since no one has touched it since he nearly dismantled-"

"Whoa, back up," Bulma sharply cut in, digging her heels into the ground as she tried to wrench herself free from Chooco's grip. "Are you telling me I'm supposed to cater to the whims of the asshole that purged my world?"

"Only as far as the Training Simulator is concerned," Chooco warbled, "I am _aware_ of your grief and what it feels like to have your master and the destroyer of your world be one and the same. But I am also aware that if the Saiyan is displeased in any way, he will make things very, very, _very_ unpleasant for everyone on this Planet Base."

"And if he decides to start with me?" Her voice was soft, but edged in mounting fury and betrayal.

"I have informed him that you are the only individual capable of handling his demands. Saiyans are notorious for their constant quest for power, he might hesitate to harm you if it means risking the Training Simulator," Chooco assured her, though he failed to mention to Bulma that no names were mentioned at the time. And even if he had, mentioned her name that is, it would have done nothing to calm her down.

Sensing that she was on the verge of lashing out, the Mastertech decided that her rage-fueled actions would be better spent on repairs. He began to tug at her again, managing to bring them both to the Training Simulator that had seen better days. "You do not have much time. I've made a preliminary assessment of the damages and you have a long night ahead of you."

"Let me guess, you aren't even going to _help_ me with the repairs, are you?" She sighed, already feeling the beginnings of a headache from the sheer amount of work in store. Shit, the Saiyan really did a number on the bots. And the panels. And the shields. And, oh whom was she kidding, the entire fucking room needed an overhaul! "Is there _anything_ here that can be salvaged?" she groaned, kneeling down to inspect the remnants of a gutted battledroid.

"I will speak with the logistics department. They should give all your inventory requests their top priority," Chooco offered, "And grant you access to some of the restricted equipment and materials for anything else that you might need," He added, giving Bulma a look of warning that she shouldn't think about abusing her privilege.

She ignored the undertone of caution in the Rawin-jin's words as she went about jotting down the parts she would need. The Mastertech said nothing more and left a very unhappy Bulma to her work. Who could blame her? Not only was she being forced to _serve_ the murdering bastard, she would be making him _stronger_. A small part of her was tempted to sabotage his efforts, she had informed him she was going to make his life a living hell after all. But as she continued to write down the replacement parts for the room, it occurred to her how she could turn this situation around to her benefit.

A small smile managed to flit across her face as a plan began to form. She had to be careful, however. She couldn't risk alerting anyone of what she was planning. Not Miint, not Chooco, not Zarbon, least of all the Saiyan (whose name she didn't know but she suspected she would soon enough).

* * *

When Vegeta learned of Zarbon's departure for Rioglo-sei his first impulse was to head for the docking bay and blast off to Nameksei. It was only the nervous glances the lower ranked, and pathetically less powerful, Soldiers exchanged that reminded the Saiyan of his punishment. He chuckled to himself, flashing the other mercenaries on the Tsiru-jin's payroll a cruel grin, taunting them to even _try_ to stop him. It was Cui who elbowed his way out of the cluster of terrified subordinates, planting himself firmly in Vegeta's way.

"And just where do you think you're going? Frieza-sama gave strict orders to keep you detained," the purple alien demanded with a sneer.

"I'm simply taking the long way to the Training Complex," Vegeta explained amicably, the absence of the blue-skinned officer had greatly improved his mood that morning. And if luck was on his side, Cui would show him a remarkable display of stupidity and try to attack him, thus giving the Saiyan a very valid excuse to end his so-called rival.

"Careful, I hear too much training stunts your growth," snickered Cui as he backed off with no visible sign of discomfort. The oily grin on his thick lips made Vegeta's tail wind tighter around his waist and his fists itch to punch a hole clean through the other mercenary's chest.

_Patience,_ Vegeta growled to himself as he shouldered past the sharpshooting instructor with enough force to send Cui to the floor. He ignored the strings of curses the felled alien hurled at him and the daggers glared into his back, filing this incident away with all the other moments of humiliation he had suffered at the hands of Frieza and his underlings. There will be a reckoning, he vowed, as soon as he figured out a way to get to Nameksei without giving the tyrant lizard the coordinates.

In the meantime, he would vent his frustration in the training simulator he had claimed for himself yesterday. He walked through the automated door as it slid open, expecting everything to be ready for him, and was greeted by a volley of laser fire. Deftly, he dodged each one, sneering in open contempt before returning the favor at the wall-mounted weapons. Onyx eyes widened in surprise as his own Ki-blasts ricocheted back at him, the faint shimmer surrounding the smoking muzzles the only indication how such a feat could occur. He allowed a small, appreciative smirk to grace his lips before he decided to take things more seriously.

And so it went, for two straight weeks, Vegeta immersed himself in his training, stopping only when both he and the chamber could physically no longer continue. He isolated himself from the rest of the mercenaries, ignoring the annoying whispers that questioned who was the most powerful warrior on the planet base with Zarbon gone, while keeping his ears open for any news of Frieza's arrival. The old lizard said he'd personally see to the Saiyan's punishment, but he was certainly taking his sweet time. Not that Vegeta was complaining; it did give him the opportunity to formulate his plan undisturbed.

Or so he thought.

It was in the beginning of the third week did Vegeta have the displeasure of his first interruption. There were some new recruits that were stationed on the planet base, and like most rookies, they were arrogant, brash, overconfident, and far too full of themselves to even consider why less than a handful of the warriors didn't flee at the sight of the Saiyan.

He had been in the middle of a warm up when the alarms sounded, indicating someone was trying to gain access during a session. Vegeta snarled curses beneath his breath as the safety measures activated and the simulator reset its program. He made a note to instruct the tech slave (whom he just realized he had yet to even meet in person) to remove that annoying feature from the system as three very large, very muscular bovine-like aliens strut into his Training Simulator.

"We heard you got the best fighting room on the base," one of the oxen new-comer sporting a spiked mane began, "And we want in on it."

"Ain't fair you get all the fun," the shaven one chimed in while the third alien wordlessly nodded.

Vegeta narrowed his eyes at the trio, analyzing their Ki, and finding them as disappointing as the Chikyuu-jin warriors. But then again, he did need to hone his Ki-sensing skills. This would be a good way to practice that useful trick.

"Tech slave," the Saiyan Prince barked, "Restart the warm up program."

"Didn't expect the almighty Vegeta needed a warm up bout," one of them snorted in amusement.

Vegeta simply smirked as he relaxed his stance, leaving it open, practically unguarded. The soft beeps of a Scouter reading his power level reached his ears, and he inwardly grinned that the devices would only show his suppressed Ki.

The trio sneered at the figure that flashed on the small screen, "Guess Saiyans are only tough when they're in groups."

"Hey, is it true what they say? That you'd be some kinduva royalty if your planet ain't all blown up? I guess that don't mean shit to Lord Frieza, huh?"

Vegeta clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to rend the mouthy, uninvited interlopers the way he routinely does the cloaked automatons that were silently rising up from the floor just behind the trio. Their Scouters alerted them too late of the invisible machines that began to bombard anything within their line of sight with a hail of energy blasts.

The room instantly filled with the sound of startled grunts, of hooves scraping against steel, of power exploding against reinforced walls, piercing through armor, fur, and flesh, leaving wounds that would bleed, and burn, and if left unattended eventually kill.

Unlike the three injured rookies, Vegeta was completely unscathed and all he had done was simply sidestepped or angled his head and body by small increments. Normally, he would have done away with the battledroids even _before_ they completely emerged, but he needed moving targets to lock onto. It took Vegeta more time than he would have liked before he managed to identify and differentiate the three signatures.

And when he was able to make out even the tech slave's tiny, insignificant Ki all the way in the control room, he knew it wouldn't be long before this ability would become second nature to him.

The last of the rookies fell to the floor, alive, conscious, and it was obvious they had seen better days. To their credit, they suffered their injuries in silence. Or was it because they'd been too sapped of strength to even groan?

"And you call yourselves mercenaries," Vegeta scoffed before proceeding to dismantle the battledroids with casual ease.

The drone of a synthesized voice sounded out of the speakers, "System warm up: Complete. Regimen analysis: Complete. Initiating: Danger Level Five."

Vegeta snorted in annoyance, "You three set my usual danger level down by two." A wicked grin suddenly split across his face, "I suppose we'd be even if I set _your_ number down by two as well."

Maniacal laughter rang against the walls as the three rookies suddenly found the strength to make a break for the door, once again setting off the alarm, and causing the Simulator to reset itself back to warm up mode.

* * *

Bulma stared at the screens displaying the Saiyan's progress, her face awash in a mixture of horror and awe as she studied the charts and compared the end results of each day. It had been barely three months since the Saiyan claimed the Training Simulator she'd built but he was tearing through the difficulty levels with ease. Not only was he constantly getting stronger, she was _helping_ him. Not that she had a choice in the matter but it didn't ease the guilt or disgust or the utter loathing she felt for him every time the training cameras managed to catch a glimpse of him. She shuddered at the twisted sneer, one showing utter joy in destruction, so seemingly permanent on his countenance, and tried instead to focus on her plan.

She studied her notes, and out of habit, her hand absently brushed on the encapsulated Ki-gun she'd finally finished. She knew no one would ever dare disturb her while she was within the control room, not after the Saiyan had shown those rookies and everyone else on the base just what he was capable. But she couldn't afford to let her guard down. Not here. Not now. Not when she was so, _so_ close to completing the hardest part of her plan, ironically, thanks to the alien currently demolishing the first wave of new automatons she'd designed. If he hadn't the single-minded dedication he was displaying in his training, it would have been much longer before she could justify ordering hyperengine parts. And much longer before she could use him as an excuse to use the scrapped spaceships.

Blue eyes suddenly darted back to the monitors when the sound of someone attempting to enter the Training Simulator. Her brows knitted together, who would be stupid enough? Immediately the chamber went into reset, and she couldn't help but smirk at the irritated snarl pulling at the Saiyan's lips. She tensed when in entered Cui, one hand encapsulating her work-area, the other switching the speakers on in order to listen in on their conversation.

"-ying you a visit, Vegeta."

"Then get _out_ and stop wasting my time," Vegeta snapped.

"I just need to check up on a certain someone, Zarbon's orders," Cui explained smugly, adjusting his Scouter until he was staring straight at Bulma. "Hey, little blue whore, his Monkey Highness here ain't running you ragged that you're uglier than you normally are, is he?"

She knew he was just trying to get a rise out of her, but all the same, Bulma found she had a few things to say to the sharpshooting instructor. Her voice was calm and even, not the least bit indicative of her cruel grin when she switched the microphone on just long enough to say, "You should probably be more concerned about the droids behind you, Cui." It was definitely satisfying to see him try and fail to avoid the first hail of pinpoint-accurate laser-fire.

When the rest of the session became reminiscent of the three rookies', Bulma decapsulated her work-area to continue finishing her work. She calculated and drafted and computed, just barely aware of the carnage in the training area. When every number added up and the figures revealed were more than promising, she realized she was ready to begin the third and final phase of her plan! Her tiny moment of elation was cut short when she heard Vegeta growl, "You step foot in here again, Cui, and I will _end_ you." She strained to listen for the other alien's response, caught the hum of the Training Simulator's door sliding open, and then there was only silence. Normally, dead air meant the Saiyan had collapsed from exhaustion, but it was still too early in the day for that to happen. Fatigue and body damage only set in after hours, sometimes days, of rigorous training.

"Tech slave," Vegeta barked, his ever impatient and demanding behavior amplified by the control room's speakers. With a roll of her eyes, Bulma waited for him to continue, wondering what he wanted improved or upgraded _this_ time. Seconds passed, and now the Saiyan snarled with teeth bared, "I said, _Tech slave_!"

The Chikyuu-jin activated the microphone a second time, "Yes?" she tried to keep herself from sounding terse, but it was difficult with Vegeta. She was poised to jot down his demands, glad she didn't have to speak with him face to face up until he ordered her to: "Use the communication screen."

Bulma blinked, once more encapsulating her work-area, suddenly needing a deep breath before she could activate the monitors. "Yes?" She repeated, trying to show as little emotion as she could, trying not to squirm while those dark eyes studied her through the screen. She posed the question, "Is there anything you needed modified or upgraded for the next session?"

A wolfish smile graced his lips, and though Bulma felt a cold chill shoot up her spine, to her credit, she managed to only clench her fists tight.

"And here I thought you were going to make my life a living hell," he taunted.

If he'd told her that three months ago, with her plan still in its early stages and her goal seeming so far away, Bulma might have snapped. She might have lost her temper and made very graphic threats while using _very_ coarse language. But she was halfway to saving her world, she couldn't afford to start all over again all because she couldn't control herself. Or her mouth. All she would allow herself to choke out through grit teeth was, "I thought you were doing a pretty fine job of it yourself."

He laughed at her, arms folding across his bare chest, "All I hear is an excuse."

The smile she gave him was so sweet it could only be false, "Contrary to what you may think, the universe does not, in fact, revolve around you," her eyes tapered as she takes note at just how much the Saiyan bristled at her defiance, "Your precious Training Room is _only_ on my list of priorities because I take pride in my creations. Now if you're done wasting time, I have modifications to debug and data to analyze, oh Prince of _Nothing_."

She switched the monitor off with a vicious press of the button, hoping that he would get the message and leave her be for the remainder of her stay. Which, giving the figures another glance, would be less than a month. One month, she sighed, making a mental prayer to Kami to give her strength and patience and for no more interruptions.

Unfortunately, Kami was _dead_ and even if he was alive, the Namekian could do little to the surly, temperamental Saiyan who was once again snarling at her to activate the communication screen. She cursed beneath her breath before complying with a neutral, "Yes?"

"Listen here, you stupid bitch," his growl was low, barely audible, "If you besmirch my lineage _again_, I assure you it will not end well." Even though Bulma fully expected the slur and was becoming accustomed to the Saiyan's temper, there was something _different_ about the black rage coloring his tone. Whatever it was, it was unlike anything she'd ever heard from him before. The intensity in those obsidian eyes promised a long, torturous existence, and though it terrified the blue-haired genius she could not bring herself to look away.

It was only when Vegeta disabled the monitor with a fist through the controls did Bulma realize the jack-hammering pace of her heart and that she'd been holding her breath. Her brow was beaded in cold sweat, minor tremors quaked her hands, and her mind remained blank for several long moments. She shook her head, filled her lungs with a sharp intake of air, and forced herself to focus on the final phase of her plan.

* * *

As the days rolled by, Vegeta found his plan of sneaking to Namek-sei without Frieza's knowledge become less and less likely to succeed. None of the free-man techs were willing to betray the lizard tyrant and none of the tech slaves were skilled enough. Save, that is, for one. But Vegeta would rather _die_ than resort to asking the Chikyuu-jin tech slave for her help. However, that didn't mean he was above tricking her into helping him. He wasn't going to give up his quest for immortality. He _will_ be free of Frieza's clutches, one way or the other! Today was the day he would find out if the tech slave could give him what he needed.

"Tech slave!" he barked, obsidian eyes darting to the newly repaired communication screen.

When monitor blinked on, the aqua-haired woman's face appeared. And with all the frankness Vegeta could muster he observed, "You look more hideous than usual."

Unlike his other insults, this one had merit. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, her skin was sallow, her hair was an oily, stringy mess, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her mouth curled in derision, "Tell me something I don't know."

Vegeta smirked as he obliged her rhetorical question with "You're incompetent and useless,"

He watched her jaw clench in anger, eyes screwing shut as she breathed in through her nostrils in an attempt to retain her composure before asking him, "What do you want?"

"I want to know the status of that upgrade I requested."

"A request is different from a threat," she stated in a low, even tone, "But if you must know, I was in the process of finishing the last batch of tests."

"If you had half the talent you keep boasting about, you would have been done sooner."

"I would have finished sooner if you just stopped interrupting me every ten Kami-damned minutes." She glared, folding her arms across her chest in a visible attempt to keep her temper in check.

There was something strangely satisfying in needling this particular tech slave. Something in the way her blue eyes burned bright with rage thrilled him, made him feel like he was facing off with a powerful opponent for the first time. The way she handled herself whenever she defended the quality of her creations was almost regal, her cutting words dignified, as if she'd been born from a royal house instead of some backwater planet on the purge-list.

He found himself engaging her in these verbal spars more and more often. And each time, he came to discover just how keen her wit was. As long as the woman didn't insult the subject of his people's honor, the Saiyan prince actually found her interesting.

Old Gods, there were even moments Vegeta wished she had _some_ ounce of fighting power so he could see how she would perform in a battle. Would she favor an elegant technique or did her temper suggest a more brutal, feral style? But when he realized he was having these thoughts, he quickly pushed them to the back of his mind. He couldn't afford distractions and she was proving to be one of the biggest distractions he'd ever encountered. And for that, he would make her death as slow and torturous as possible.

For now, he would grant her mercy and allow her to continue serving his needs.

"All I keep hearing are excuses," Vegeta chided, mimicking her stance while jutting his chin at her just so, making his own mockery all the more pronounced. "Really, woman, the only way I can see how you'd take such pride in your work is if your standards are exceptionally low."

Blue eyes simply stared right through him, "If you're quite done wasting our time-" she sounded bored as she glanced over her shoulder to look at something off-screen, "-Your little "request's" final test results indicate I can boot it up right now."

"Do it," he ordered as he turned his back to her.

"You're welcome," she snarled and turned off the monitor.

The room began to thrum as the walls and floors rearranged themselves for a new session.

When the first laser pistol emerged from a hidden panel, Vegeta frowned in disappointment. He shot a small beam of Ki at the weapon to test whether or not a Ki-deflecting shield had been raised. He was startled to find the beam passing through the pistol without destroying it but the moment passed quickly and he was once again on the alert, managing to dodge a hail of missiles that shot out of a blank section of the wall.

He couldn't tell whether his request had been accomplished. Not until he slipped on a Scouter for the first time in months and activated it. When the eyepiece gave no readings nor any indications of the cloaked objects within the Training Simulator, Vegeta knew he could push into the next part of his plan.

Automatons suddenly dropped down from the ceiling and while these two appeared on the Scouter, they did not look like the automatons but rather like the rookie mercenaries who'd dared interrupt his training. It seemed the tech slave managed to push his plan even further, much to the Saiyan's delight.

"These are a welcomed distraction to your usual mundane creations," Vegeta smirked, taking great pleasure in ripping the droids apart. His smirk widened when the images the droids now sported were of Zarbon and Cui. While he would have preferred to tear into the real individuals, this was an adequate way to pass the time.

"You made me bust my ass for a specially calibrated cloaking mechanism just because you wanted a _distraction_!" the woman's voice suddenly rang throughout the simulator.

The Saiyan prince purposely turned towards one of the cameras built into the chamber, making sure the tech slave saw the smug, triumphant sneer on his face when he answered, "Yes."

He allowed himself an amused chuckle when he sensed her Ki flare in rage. It was really more of a spark than a flare, he had to purposely lock onto her negligibly tiny Ki to have even noticed any increase. But that was enough of a warm up, it was time for him to throw himself back into training. This session proved far more satisfying than the others despite the relative ease.

It was one thing to destroy faceless machines, it was another when they took on the form of real people. He had the pleasure of killing Radditz and the Chikyuu-jin Namekian and even the traitorous Kakarot. It was a shame, he noted, that they didn't bleed. He'll see to it that the tech slave remedied that.

Vegeta turned on his heel, about to bury his fist through another cloaked droid when he saw it was the tech slave. Oh this was rich, was she trying to get back at him? Didn't she realize she was giving him _more_ reason to destroy it? The oil-stained coveralls she was wearing suddenly shifted into a sundress that revealed much of her creamy skin and the attractive swell of her breasts. The grim countenance she initially displayed turned into a radiant, joyful smile, as if she was greeting an old comrade. But the sudden blush deepening on the apples of her cheeks suggested she was reuniting with an old lover.

He stood stock-still, transfixed more by the warmth in her open smile and less by the gauzy fabric of her dress. He had never seen her look at him, or at anyone else, in such a manner before. In that instant he forgot where he was. Until pain, sharp and intense, tore through him as a bolt of artificial Ki shot through his shield and into his shoulder, jarring him back to reality. Snarling, he released a string of blasts, matching each beam with two of his own that jammed into muzzles, bursting mechanisms from within, and igniting a series of explosions that rocked the Training Complex.

When the dust had settled and the ringing in his ears stopped, Vegeta heard the faint hiss of the intercom switching on, then the clipped voice of the Chikyuu-jin tech slave asking, "That _distracting_ enough for you?"

* * *

With one last twist of her wrench and a throaty grunt, Bulma finally finished constructing her spaceship. She stepped back, wiping her brow with the back of her hand before grinning while she admired her craft. It was smaller than the massive ship of an officer but it was larger than the one-man pods. It was big enough to comfortably fit up to three individuals and the necessary supplies for the trip to Nameksei.

Affectionately, she reached out with a gloved hand to stroke the Capsule Corporation logo she had haphazardly painted on once the hull was complete. The logo lacked her usual precision but she was pressed for time, Miint had confirmed the journey from this Planet Base to Nameksei took at least two weeks. After almost five months since Kami informed her of Chikyuu's fate, Bulma didn't have the luxury of time. She didn't know how long it would be before Zarbon returned either. She leaned forward to rest her forehead against the metal surface, taking deep, calming breaths as she tried to forget the events three nights ago.

_She should have taken better precautions while she was in the Training Simulator. Yes, most of the people on the base knew better than to disturb her when she was "supposedly" repairing the room for the Saiyan, but then again, Cui was not most people. She had just finished installing the hyper-engine on top the maintenance work on the Saiyan's cloaking device and was the process of modifying her spaceship's cloaking mechanism to have the same effect as the Training Simulator's when she heard the door slide open. She encapsulated the ship too late because the next thing she knew, she was pinned face-down on the metal floor._

_"I knew you were up to something!" Cui cackled triumphantly, his gloved hand clamped tight on her nape. _

_Bulma couldn't reach for her Ki-gun, the sharpshooting instructor had his foot pressing down on her wrist, and she obviously didn't have the strength to pull free. The purple alien put more weight on her wrist, threatening to snap delicate, Chikyuu-jin bone. Her stomach knotted at what she was about to do. _

_"What do you think Zarbon will say after he learns you attacked me?" As much as she hated to use Zarbon's name to protect herself, Cui wasn't giving her much of a choice. But then, the purple alien answered and all color drained from her face._

_"Zarbon probably promote me for obeying him so well. He did tell me to keep a close eye on you," he sneered. "And I'm sure he and Master Frieza will very interested in that little trick of yours. How did you make that huge spaceship disappear like that?"_

_"I'm not telling you shit, you thick-lipped freak!" Bulma snarled, struggling in vain against his grip._

_"Aww, now you've gone and hurt my feelings." He frowned, narrowing his beady eyes at her. "Looks like Zarbon's last lesson wasn't enough to teach you manners."_

_"You don't hit half as hard as he does." Bulma put on a brave front, but her body had instinctively begun trembling at the memory. "But you're three times uglier so I'll give you that."_

_A deep, velvety voice suddenly rumbled, "He's also five times as stupid."_

_There was a sharp displacement of air, and the oppressing weight on the back of her neck and wrist lifted. Cui's squeals for mercy rang throughout the room. By the time she got to her knees, thick, violet blood rained down on her as the purple alien exploded from nothing more than Vegeta focusing his overwhelming Ki._

_While she waited for the pounding in her ears to stop, she stared up at the Saiyan, mouth slightly agape. She was half worried from the brutal display, half confused from the mechanics behind Cui's death, and completely shocked that Vegeta had saved her. Why had he come back? And how did he even_ know _what Cui was up to? Did he know what_ she _was up to?_

_The Saiyan studied her wordlessly and without emotion. The lack of mockery and insults from Vegeta unnerved her. He never let an opportunity to cut her down pass him by. And yet here they were, simply staring at each other. All traces of his emotions were hidden behind an unreadable mask while Bulma let her hair fall into her eyes. _

_"Don't think this means anything, tech slave. I warned him what would happen to him if I found him in here," Vegeta growled. "You're lucky I remembered I had another upgrade for you to make."_

_Bulma nodded wordlessly at him, keeping her eyes downcast as she listened to his latest demands. She was visibly shaken up by the attack and by what Cui had said. Zarbon had ordered Cui to keep a close eye on her? Were there more warriors acting as the emerald-skinned officer's eyes and ears? _

_"Woman, are you even listening?" Vegeta pressed._

_Bulma was not in the mood for an argument. She only needed to make a few more adjustments to her spaceship and learn the fastest route to Nameksei before she can finally get away from this accursed Planet Base, and Zarbon, and this ungrateful, overbearing, insufferable Saiyan! "Yes, you want the next batch of Ki-shields to also act like the cloaking device," she repeated mechanically._

_"Good." He sounded satisfied with her answer and began to leave. _

_Just as the door slid open, Bulma whispered, "Thank you." She didn't bother to look if he heard it. The realization of just how close she came to losing everything hit her with an audible crash and she crumpled forward into a sobbing heap._

"It won't be long now," Bulma whispered as she encapsulated the spaceship, pocketing the resulting capsule together with her Ki-gun. "I'll make everything right again." She headed for the Training Simulator's control room. She slipped on a modified Scouter, one that was cut off from the networks and had the same properties as the cloaking device she designed for the Saiyan. She activated the small device, and entered a special program into the control room's main computer. Upon successfully installing the program, a timer flashed on her Scouter. With the cloaking device on, she managed to easily slip into the Planet Base's launch area.

The guards stationed by the gates never realized she was there. All they heard was a soft pop as she decapsulated the Ki-gun and the sharp jolt of energy knocked them both out. With them unconscious, there was no one to hear the louder burst from the spaceship, and with the craft's own cloaking shield activated, not even the surveillance cameras detected her.

Once settled inside, she checked the timer on her modified Scouter. There was no room for error. She only had one shot at this and if she missed it... she shook her head clear of that thought, blue eyes fixing on the timer. She made one last inspection of her supplies before closing the spacecraft's door. In anxious silence, Bulma wait for the digits on the ship's screen hit to zero before she pressed a switch on the control panel.

The ship's engines roared to life and catapulted her into space at the exact moment a massive explosion rocked the Planet Base. Her mouth split into a wild-eyed grin as the image on the screen revealing the image of the Training Complex erupting into more explosions. With the planet base's personnel rushing to contain the fire, no one noticed Bulma's craft breaking through the atmosphere and disappearing into space.

Bulma leaned back in her seat, finally releasing the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding since the launch, lids slowly closing in triumph. Blue eyes suddenly shot open as her entire body went rigid. Because strong hands had clamped down on her shoulders, and a deep velvety voice whispered into the shell of her ear, "Now _that_ was a distraction."


End file.
